


Escape From New York

by LotusRox, thelonebamf



Series: Run From Their Company [1]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash, RP Archive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5236658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusRox/pseuds/LotusRox, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelonebamf/pseuds/thelonebamf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>CIA agent David Sears gets sent to extract and imprison shut-in and hacker extraordinaire Hal Emmerich for the trade of sensitive USA documents to the recently founded Republic of Zanzibarland (Kashmir, Central Asia). Something about his mark doesn’t allow him to pull the trigger, and all of a sudden Canada starts looking than a better option than mindless killing for a government he doesn’t believe in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of our archived RP threads, tidied up a bit and ordered into some kind of semblance for your entertainment and perhaps even enjoyment. It’s not “proper” finished fic, there’s a bit of redundancy and sort of stream-of-consciousness writing because that’s just the nature of back and forth RP but I went back and tried to lessen that a bit, so this should read as half decent prose.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the AU we've created! It's been a labor of love for both of us and we're really excited to share.

He had been briefed for the mission, of course. And this kind of _extraction_ is just routine at this point - not his first one, and definitely not his last.

He has spent the better part of a year being known as Agent Sears at _The Company_ , utterly unconvinced of what he has been doing for them, and yet performing at the best of his capacity. It’s not like he had been given many options. Yet, with missions like these, David finds himself dearly missing his cabin at Alaska. Doubt had been nagging at him as soon as he had read Emmerich’s file. A young man barely out of his teens… who already posed a security threat so big the Pentagon wanted his head. He didn’t look like much in those blurry photos, and the ID pic had been taken several years before so he looked even more like a boy.

Then again, it wasn’t like David was a stranger to the concept of extremely young people getting involved into stuff too big for them to really handle. This was a dangerous hacker leaking state secrets into the Deep Web. He was no child.

His orders had been to try and catch him alive so he could get thrown inside Guantanamo for an indefinite time, no trial needed - but his superiors had also hinted pretty clearly how they wouldn’t mind a cleaner disposal if it came to that. _‘So young and already a traitor to the state - Seems like the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree’_ , they had said. But they hadn’t explained further either, and David hadn’t asked - it wasn’t his place to do so.

CIA agents and remorse don’t usually mix, and when they do, they don’t mix _well._ So Agent Sears does his best to not actually think of what he’s doing when he knocks at the door of Emmerich’s apartment. He’d rather do this raising the least commotion possible.

Hal hadn’t set out to break the law.

Well that wasn’t strictly true. He’d pirated countless files, cracked endless software key codes, overcome any number of firewalls. But he’d never meant to do any harm. The only reason Hal had ever started hacking, the reason he assumed most people got into it, was for a challenge. It kept him busy, kept his mind off of his troubles and best of all there were no names.

Nobody on any of the secret forums he frequents knows anything about Hal Emmerich. They don’t know what his family is been responsible for. They don’t know what he himself has done. Even if they do, they probably don’t have care.

The only names that mean anything to the anonymous community (and Hal uses that term in the loosest sense possible) are their handles. Each one is tied to a list of accomplishments and respect. With each new job, one gains a little more notoriety, claws one more inch up the ladder to… what, Hal doesn’t know.

He’d chosen “Otacon” in the hopes that someday someone would ask him why.

It is escapism, pure and simple, he is fully aware of that- but he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. He’d run away from home, dropped out of school and had taken to spending all of his time shut in to his tiny apartment.

He tries not to think about where the money had come from.

Instead he focuses on passwords _not whispered words,_ on locked files not _locked doors,_ on breaching security… _not trust_.

It becomes more difficult over time, memories always threatening him from the corners of his mind. If he isn’t always focused on some task or another, they could swallow him entirely.

So when this challenge had landed on his doorstep, he didn’t hesitate. He should have known, in retrospect that something was wrong. The request was anonymous, the job was so specific. If Hal had stopped for even a moment to consider what he’d been asked to do he would have known. But he didn’t stop. Stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering. And remembering… was something Hal couldn’t afford.

So Otacon had set to work. He’d spent the better part of two weeks devising a plan, testing the security. It wasn’t going to be easy, but then, it _was_ the Pentagon.

He’d expected to feel elated when it was over, proud. He’d stayed up late at night imagining just how cool he was going to sound when he posted about his latest job. But when it was over, data passed along to his anonymous contact, he felt… nothing. No, not nothing… empty. Used.

He hasn’t touched his machine days after the job. He’s had little luck with sleep as either. His apartment begins to feel stifling and hot, and he wonders if soon he’ll find himself unable to breathe.

Finally, having enough, he decides to leave. He begins throwing some of his belongings into a small duffle bag, a few changes of clothes, a notebook or two… part of him wants to leave his laptop behind, but he knows he’d regret it.

His hand is inches from the door when he hears the knock, causing him to pause. He never has visitors. He’s never even seen the faces of his neighbors, so he doubts one had popped over to borrow a cup of sugar now. Taking a deep breath to calm himself he straightens his sweatshirt and reaches out and opened the door.

What Hal finds on the other side of the door, is a tall stranger in a dark suit, with an even darker expression.

David takes his shades off, every movement calculated. His first glance is at the young man who opened the apartment to him, and then a quick sweeping look at the inside of his home. It looks as poorly kept as its owner. If there’s any twinge of sympathy inside of him, he ignores it completely. This is his job, and he excels at it. He doesn’t know how _not_ to.

The duffle bag on the young man’s shoulder is such a tell.He had been planning to run away, hadn’t he? _So he knows what he did._

“Are you Hal Emmerich?” And of course he knows already, the very first glance at the young man had told him, loud and clear, he had found his mark. But protocol is protocol. He shows him his badge - the CIA seal is unmistakable. Cold professionalism drips from his voice when he adds: “You’ll find it’s in your best interests to let me in.”

Hal’s bag fell to his feet with an audible ‘thunk’ and he’s so stunned at the sight on the agent in front of him he doesn’t even register the possible damage to his computer. He glances at the badge, lips parting as his mind scrambles to find words.

_'So this is it then.'_

He nods in affirmation at the man’s question, knowing that lying would get him nowhere. This man clearly knows who he is and what he’s done, and he is here to make him pay.

Without a word, Hal takes a step backwards into the apartment, expecting the worst.

He is not, however, expecting the bottle beneath his feet, and quickly slips and tumbles backwards, landing flat on his back. He scrambles quickly into a seated position, thin arms wrapped around his knees to keep them from shaking.

He bites his lip before speaking at last. “Are… are you here to kill me?”

David enters, and closes the door behind him.

He had run a series of possible scenarios in his head, before arriving. And he still hadn’t been expecting– this. This acceptance. The young man looks scared enough, and vulnerable. Especially after tripping like that. But he’s not resisting at all.

Is he planning something? But then again, he doesn’t look strong or agile enough to brawl his way out of the apartment, nor does Dave detect any bulge that would give away a concealed weapon. Unless–

“Stand up”, he orders. “You’re under arrest.”

There’s nothing behind or beneath him, either. David frowns, not liking the way this is beginning to look. He proceeds anyway, grabbing at his wrist and pinning his hands behind his back in two swift movements.

“You’re being charged with treason”, he states, and he wants to be clear on this: “for the leak and trade of sensitive U.S. documents to the government of Zanzibarland.”

As Hal feels his arms pulled behind him he knows it is pointless to resist. The man who has been sent to arrest him has several inches on him and seems to be made of pure muscle. Even if he thought he had a chance at fighting his way out, it isn’t as though he has anywhere to go.

“Treason?” A thin whisper escapes his lips, as though he himself cannot believe it.  “You mean… I really… oh… god….” His shoulders begin shaking despite the awkward angle. “….Fuck. FUCK!” A jerky shudder takes over his entire body as tears began streaming down his face. He knew he’d gone further than he should have this time around, but treason? And what the fuck was a Zanzibar?

His knees give out beneath him, not that it matters much. The tight grip of the agent is more than enough to keep his slight frame upright.

“I’m sorry.” He manages to choke out an apology through his sobs. “Look, I… I know it doesn’t matter, but… I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was… fuck. You don’t care, I know…” He shakes his head. “I just…”

And all at once he is drowning.

His father. E. E..

He’d known what he was doing then and he’d still gone through with it. Whatever came to him now, he deserves it.

His legs struggle to support himself again as he turns his head slightly to look up at the face of the agent. He can barely make out the man’s features over the top of his glasses, but he strained to see him clearly. “…I deserve this,” he echoes.

“ _… Deserve this_?”, David repeats, thrown off by Emmerich’s reaction in its entirety.

Is this a ruse? He tightens the hold on the young man’s wrists for a second or two, and then, very slowly, lets it go. Not completely, still holding him in place, but it’s not as aggressive as before. It’s easier to handcuff him, anyway.

And only then, does he turn Emmerich around, still holding him up so he won’t fall to the floor - judging by the way he’s shaking and hyperventilating, at least. He forces the young man’s face up with a hand, looking for any clues, or hints of insincerity on his face. He finds none. Then again, Emmerich could just be a very good liar.

“Breathe. You’re no good to me if I have to knock you out so you won’t have a panic attack.”

Hal finds himself almost dizzy at being unexpectedly turned to face the agent. His hands are still held behind him in one of the man’s hands, but the pressure has changed slightly and he finds himself slowly returning to the present.

Suddenly a hand is on his face and he finds himself gazing up into a pair of blue eyes, deadly serious. His own expression is gaping and awed, although he cannot stop the hiccups that shake his body each time he makes an effort to gasp for breath.

It is was the closest thing to an embrace he had had since…

When the man speaks at last, Hal is surprised at the tone. It is still dark and severe, but if he focuses, the boy thinks he can hear what almost sounds like genuine concern. Wishful thinking, he knows.

His body shakes once or twice more as he nods, still staring up at the man, using his eyes as an anchor in the swirling chaos that has descended upon him. “ _That you brought on yourself,_ ” he tells himself.

“W…whatever you said. I did it, I’m sure. I… I might not have realized it at the time but… I knew something was wrong… and I went ahead. I thought it would be okay… didn’t think anyone would get hurt, not really… but…” He forces himself not to look away, to keep staring straight back at the man. “…it doesn’t really matter, does it?“

“Not to the government of this country, no” the agent answers, sincere despite his severe gruffness, still not letting go of Emmerich’s face.

 _‘I knew something was wrong and I went ahead anyway’_. It’s not like he doesn’t know the feeling. There’s a very good reason he cast away his previous codename, the one that had been his entire identity to him until the previous year.

It’s not like he can’t see Emmerich’s sorrow, clear as day. He hasn’t denied anything, and the pain in those eyes, so young and so gray, looks genuine. It hints at more than what he was sent here for. But haunting as they are, it’s also very much not his business, and not the reason he’s in this room. Getting concerned by other people had never brought David anything good.

At least he doesn’t look like he’s going to collapse right in front of him anymore. Agent Sears breaks visual contact, releases his hold on him, secures the handcuffs. _Such thin wrists._ A peaceful extraction, huh? His bosses back in Quantico are going to be pleased.

… So why does he feels like he needs a drink right now?

The cuffs snap around Hal’s wrists and for a brief moment he finds himself fixated on the sensation. The cold metal feels strange to him, different than that of any the mechanical components he routinely handled.  ‘ _Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to get used to them’._ A faint whimper escapes his lips, but he stifles it, unsure if it would be viewed as a form of protest.

A feeling of powerlessness overwhelms him. It’s not the first time he’s felt this way, but it’s never been so distinct, so complete. Even if his body had been cooperating with him he can’t make a move against the cuffs, against this man who is here to take him… oh god he had no idea.

He wonders vaguely if anyone will tell what’s left of his family. He realizes he doesn’t want them to know. Better for them to think he’s simply disappeared, died in a ditch somewhere rather than this.

“I’m sorry, kid. I’m just a tool of the government, doing his job.” It’s the only consolation he can offer right now. A _‘no hard feelings’._ This boy may not be innocent, but he’s not going to survive imprisonment, and _that_ is a bitter thought.

“Don’t…” he manages to whisper, “…don’t apologize. I’ve done enough already. A good man shouldn’t be saying ‘sorry’ to the likes of me.” He knows nothing of the man holding him now, only that he is clearly strong, capable, and good at his job. But then, isn’t that enough? His fingers twine together behind his back as he starts thinking out loud, thoughts bubbling over beyond his control.

“…just a tool…” he repeats. “…yeah… I understand. I think that’s what I am…or maybe… maybe something worse. Tools are useful at least, they… they have a function but me…” his head drops. “no purpose at all…Just trying to prove myself to.. to…” He shrugs and shakes his head.

“I… I guess somebody noticed though, that’s something right?” He looks back at the agent and gives him a sad smile.

He grows quiet for a moment, breath starting to even out as panic fades into acceptance. “Did… did I hurt anyone?” He asks at last.

He does realize Emmerich is having another kind of breakdown right now, right in front of him. And, he does tell to himself he doesn’t care, at all - he’s his mark. Doesn’t matter if the way he’s talking resonates deeply within himself, in ways he disappeared into Alaska so as to _not_ acknowledge. But then he finishes it like that and…

 _“… Hurt anyone?”_ , he can’t quite believe these words.

Fuck this. He needs a smoke. Doesn’t even ask if Emmerich is alright with it, just takes out a cigarette, and lights it, inhaling deeply. As he exhales, he answers:

“Kid… aren’t you nineteen? You can’t possibly be this naive.”

 _Where to even start._ He moves, goes by Emmerich’s side, leaning against the wall. He thinks for a second, says:

“I’m a dog of The Company. There’s a good reason the CIA doesn’t usually work domestic. The kind of shit we do wouldn’t fly inside the States. I’m absolutely not a good man, and the only reason I’m here instead of the FBI, is because you sold American secrets to a _foreign_ country - one that’s been giving us a headache since they went independent, to boot.”

 _Why is he even telling him this?_ Agent Sears pauses, takes another drag, and lets the smoke comfort him. Take away the bitter taste of throwing away someone like this _kid_ to rot in a cell until either torture or hunger killed him.

“Which… if you’re telling the truth, is just tough luck. You were good enough to get inside and leave unnoticed - we caught you because of the trail you left when you _relayed_ that information. And even then… Should’ve kept it national. The FBI would have scouted you. You would have ended with a new job, instead of what’s going to happen to you now. Where I have to escort you.”

Always analyzing, he offers him the cigarette. Holds it for him and everything, who knows, could help calm him down.

“Even the fact that you’re asking if _people got hurt_ … You’re a good kid. Mistakes happen. And now… we have to go.” He doesn’t want to do this, _it feels wrong._ Didn’t want this mission from the start, and now even less. But he always finishes his missions, and now _is not the time_ to stop. “Because, I’m _not_ a good man.”

Hal winces at the soft click of metal, eyes closed tight as he awaits what he assumes is a bullet. As the smoke enters his nostrils he coughs slightly, opening his eyes to the surprising sight of the agent grimly sucking at a cigarette. He listens to the man’s words, mind scrambling to sort through the information, to make sense of it all in an attempt to find his place in the world he was describing. _Foreign country? Zanzibarland?_ It seemed to fit, although it was no place he’d ever seen on a map.

“Sold?” He questions quietly. There had been no exchange of funds between himself and the anonymous stranger who had set him to the task. Since he had run away Hal had managed to subsist on whatever had been left to him by his father, a last shameful tie to the man whose death he felt personally responsible for. _They’ll have seized all those accounts,_ He realizes. Another connection gone.

His train of thought is halted abruptly at the cigarette now in his face. He recoils slightly at first, imagining the agent is threatening him, planning to snuff it out on his face or something equally as awful. He soon realizes he is being offered a chance at it, some kind of minute consolation. He had never smoked before, finding the smell to be off-putting to say nothing of the health risks.

He leans forward and accepts it between his lips.

Immediately he is coughing again, chest convulsing and causing him to shake until he leans up against the wall, his forehead brushing against the shoulder of the only person who had ever been completely honest with him in his life. _Mistakes happen?_ Obviously this is so. His whole life had been a testament to the fact. He can’t even begin to catalog the number of missteps he must have made to bring him to this point, most recently…

“…Wait,” he speaks up, voice suddenly firm. “Look, I… I know I’m in no position to make demands, or even requests but, there’s just one thing.” He looks up at the man, eyes pleading. “Just do me this one thing and I swear I’ll go wherever you say.”

… Had the situation been any different, he might have snorted a laugh. _Go figure, he doesn’t even smoke._ Things being as they were… Dave just retrieves his cigarette back and takes a drag of his own, rolling his eyes.

But he doesn’t bother pushing Emmerich away, either. The agent just lets him rest against him - it’s not like he weighs much, and he’s perceptive enough to realize there must have been several reasons for the kid to accept his meager peace offer, especially if he didn’t like tobacco.

So it’s even more surprising when he speaks up like that. David never forgot his mission, and it’s still like harshly getting thrown back to it. The mood surrounding them both shifts. He had been getting too trusting there. Colder again:

“What is this _request_ of yours?”

Hal takes a step back, a determined look on his face. It seems that he was at least going to get a chance, which is more than he deserves. His hands grow hot, and he tenses them against the bite of the cuffs. He looks back at the man, so strong, so confident- everything he isn’t.

 In this moment, there is only one thing he wants.

“On… on my desk,” he takes a few steps in the direction of his catastrophically messy workspace. “There’s a disc, it has… it has everything I used to… to…” he trails off. Saying, “to hack into the Pentagon” out loud will make the situation seem somehow absurd, as though he isn’t currently being arrested for exactly that.

He beckons with his head. “All the code I wrote, the security holes I exploited, and… and the information regarding the drop. It’s not much,” he admits, “but in the right hands maybe it will lead you to them. I know it doesn’t change what I did, but..if… if it helps. I want you to have it.”

This kid, he cannot _possibly_ be for real.

CIA Agent David Sears has been thrown in for a loop too many times in the last half hour for him to remain comfortable.

“… You do realize, this– is not going to help you in an _actual trial_?”, he asks, dropping some of the coldness from his voice but still terribly guarded. And indeed, severe. “You’re not going to get one, kid.”

He grinds what’s left of his cigarette against his heel, drops the butt of it into a nearby (overflowing with papers) trashcan. If he knew what Emmerich is thinking about him, he’d disagree. Right now, a lot of his confidence is more of an act than anything else. But he doesn’t take his eyes off him.

“I can pass your _package_ and your message along to my superiors, and don’t be mistaken - I’m sure it’ll be useful. But, I hope you realize you won’t get anything out of it.”

Hal’s shoulders drop at the agent’s words with what he can only call ‘relief’. He finds tears brimming at his eyes once more and one arm lurches forward as he tries to wipe them away, handcuffs momentarily forgotten. He settles for dragging his cheek against his shoulder, pressing a faint smile against the fabric as he does so.

“…Thank you,” he whispers.

He turns back to look at the man, a strange look of hope crossing his features. Hasn’t he heard what he’s just been told? There is no chance of bargaining, no time off for good behavior. He isn’t going to get a phone call. Not that he has anyone to call in the first place.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he confesses. “Not somebody like you. But… I… I’ve never helped anyone before, in my life. Not really. And.. if… if this is it, I’d like to at least help you…ah..” He bites his tongue, brow furrowing. “… that’s stupid, isn’t it? I don’t even know your name.”

He shakes his head, the last remnants of his tears dropping against the floor. “But you know what, it doesn’t even matter. Just… thanks.”

This is surreal. And, Dave knows he’s wasting his time here. The paranoid part of him wonders if that is Emmerich’s plan, but…his _instincts,_ those who so easily discerned between predators and prey on the battlefield, are telling him that’s not the case.

He trusts his instincts - they’re the only reason he’s still alive at the ripe old age of 24. And so, he lights another cigarette, and mutters around a lungful of smoke: “Dave. My name is Dave.”

_'You’re not Solid Snake. You forfeited the right to bear that name.'_

“You won’t last a day in there, kid”, he says, without beating around the bush, and it’s weird how his own voice also feels like it doesn’t belong in this scene. “I should just kill you. A mercy kill, because the last stop for you now is Guantanamo, and sure as hell you won’t find anything like clemency in there.”

If this is an act… But no, what is this kid making penance for? He hadn’t seen so much guilt since–

 _'You have been fooled before',_ says the voice in his head, but he stubbornly chokes it in smoke.

When Dave gives his name, Hal is taken slightly aback. He hadn’t meant it as a request, merely an observation about the state of things. He listens quietly as the agent describes what lies ahead. The details hang in the air, curling with the smoke as Hal struggles to make sense of them. Somehow, they seem less important than a name.

 “It’s uh… nice to meet you Dave,” he replies.

All of a sudden his body is shaking and he falls to the floor. For once though, his chest is no longer tight with the shudder of sobs, but… laughter? “It’s… it’s really great to meet you. I’m Hal.” The absurdity of the situation is too much for him to handle. “Great weather we’re having, huh? How about those Yankees?” Try as he might, he can’t stop laughing, even though he knows he looks crazy, even though a thin line of red has erupted where the cuffs sliced at his skin.

As quickly as it began, however, the fit ends. Hal struggles to bring himself to some sort of order, and twists his body until he manages to kneel at Dave’s feet. His tone grows quiet again as he spoke, each word deliberate and heavy.

“Would you do that?” he asks, and there is a pause as he thinks for a moment. “…for me?”

Not the reaction he had been expecting. But also, not an entirely foreign one, specially considering what he just had offered. So he lets the kid, no, _Hal_ have his fit of hysterical laughter, still smoking his cigarette. He’s feeling numb, though numbness is a sensation David is used to. _They aren’t even out of the apartment, and his mind is already breaking._ Talking to him had been a mistake, he knew it, but it was done already.

The kneeling, though. That surprises him the most. He stands there, still, silent. It’s disturbing to think of the frailty of this young man as something that _suits him -_ that suits Hal, as something alluring. He can smell the blood despite the cigarette smoke, his senses had always been attuned to notice it- blood and desperation.

Solid Snake hadn’t been a good man, but David Sears didn’t fare much better.

He threads his fingers through the young man’s hair, tugs a little to make him face him. “I will”, he promises, and then his discomfort grows so terribly he needs to break the moment, deliberate, exhaling in a grey cloud for Hal to breathe: “Have you calmed down? Or do I have to begin singing _Daisy, Daisy?”_

He downplays the harshness of his words, knowing the joke had been a cruel one, adding, “I need you of sound mind here. Whatever action I take, it’s on you now.”

Of course, he’s talking about either delivering Hal to a modern concentration camp as he was instructed, or ending his suffering right here, right now. There’s a third option that has been nagging him, at the back of his head, from the first time Hal had so earnestly confessed. He doesn’t want to dwell on it.

It’s disturbing to think he really would rather protect him. That’s the kind of impulse he had thought long buried.

Fingernails scratch at Hal’s scalp and his breath hitches slightly in surprise as he finds his face inches from Dave’s. He can feel the way his greasy hair is slipping through the man’s grip and for a moment all he can think about is when he’d showered last. _Try not to think about when you’ll get the chance again._

He leans into Dave’s grip and as the cloud of smoke envelops  his face he breathes that deeply as well. Even if he hates it there was something about the sensation that is keeping him grounded, tied to this reality, however dark it might be. To his credit, he only coughs a little, throat and hair straining in Dave’s grasp.

“Please don’t,” he rasps, still adjusting to the smoke. “..I hate that movie.” The edges of his eyes wrinkle slightly in a suggestion of a smile. Was… was Dave trying to… to joke with him? The thought stops Hal in his tracks. He’s been so selfish, so stupid. He had forgotten the man who has been sent to pick him up was in fact… a man.

“…I don’t want to die,” he confesses, voice barely above a whisper. Sure, he has hit rock bottom, lower even, if that is possible. He’d run away, cutting himself off from the world. He’d buried himself in a nest of machines, hidden behind a fake identity. He’d laid awake at night replaying the images in his mind over and over until they threatened to overtake him… and yet…

“…I know I deserve it. But I don’t…don’t want to.” His eyes shut as his words grow so quiet he wasn’t sure even Dave will be able to hear them. “…but if you think I should… _I trust you._ ”

Hal’s last words _chill him_ , and then what feels like a year of tense silence falls in the room.

David takes another drag at the cigarette, sharing the smoke in the space in between them both. There’s something he can’t quite name gnawing at his stomach, that feels more similar to whatever drove him to Alaska than the adrenaline of a mission.

He has never done well as a source of comfort. These are the things he does know how to offer: A break off the tension, a dose of nicotine, something to focus on so nobody’s emotions get out of hand. It had worked with him well enough, back when it had been Fox doing the comforting -or at least it had, until Fox had disappeared on him after Outer Heaven. But Dave is not sure it’s going to be nearly as effective with someone who looks as delicate as Hal Emmerich, naive enough to be talking of _trust_ here.

If Hal had chosen to tell him about running away and cutting off the world, the power of nightmares waking him up amidst a pool of cold sweat, the stubborn desire to cling to life _despite_ knowing how death would be more than deserved– then they could’ve both realized, easily, how they weren’t that different after all.

But he didn’t. And yet, his words hint at it in a way that keeps on _disturbing_ David. His are hands that have pulled countless triggers, bloodstained up to his shoulders and more. He knows what he should be doing, and a mercy killing shouldn’t be posing such an issue.

David Sears lets his hand slip, puts it in Hal’s shoulder. His expression is unreadable as he mutters: “I’m going to grab your things.”

“Follow me to the car.”

Hal’s scalp grows numb against Dave’s hand as he waits for a response, something, anything that would guide him to whatever was coming next. For a moment it seems like the pair might just stay like that forever, a cloud of smoke between them, his own body slowly slowly losing feeling. He wonders if that would be better than either of the alternative’s he’s actually about to face. The hand drops, wiry locks left hanging in the air and Hal lurches slightly. He hadn’t realized how much he’d  be leaning into the pull of Dave’s hand.

When he feels the gentle pressure on his shoulder his eyes snap open. Is this it? Has Dave made his decision? Is he about to die?

Snakes coil in his stomach, twisting him and his thoughts, and Dave’s expression does little to shed light on the situation. Hal’s head drops as his mind vaguely processes the words “going” and “car”. The decision has been made. Dave was carrying out his mission as ordered and soon he will be…

He couldn’t even think about it.

“I … I understand,” he answers, struggling to pull himself to his feet. He feels cold, hollow and just… spent. In some ways it is almost a relief to have Dave in control, at least now he doesn’t have to think about the future- it has all been decided. _'By you, Hal'._ He tells himself. _'You decided a long time ago'._

_'Understand? No, you don’t'._

Hal follows David out of the apartment, barely registering the harsh light of the hallway or the imminent night sky on the horizon as he takes a seat in the car. He thinks perhaps that he was doing this wrong, somehow. These are his last moments of freedom, such as it is. Shouldn’t he be recording every last detail? The scent of the air, the sound of the street? It all fails to register and he imagines that when it is all over, when he is finally at the end, the only thing he’ll be able to recall will be darkness… and the smell of smoke.

Nobody besides David would notice the wild way his heart is now beating, threatening to leap out through his throat. On the outside, his resolution looks steel-firm, and just as silent. But he relives Outer Heaven practically every night - it’s the reason he used to drink before going to bed- and it’s the first time the taste of gunpowder comes back to him so clearly, when there’s nothing else he can do to wash it away.

Dave starts the car without a further word, and as he takes the nearest highway entrance, a military radio comes alive with the push of a button. He signals Hal to stay silent, and speaks with an unwavering voice:

 _“World Trade - Actual. This is Alpha-Sierra-Two.”_

CIA Headquarters at NYC are down in Manhattan. He takes the opposite direction.

 _“Escorting target to termination site fifty-one. Wait thirty, over.”_

He’s just doing what he must.

Hal simply stares at the hand that waves across his field of vision. He’d been quiet before but now the phrase “as the grave” comes into his mind. He quashes down a grim laugh as Dave speaks.

Code names. Jargon. People talking around him ( _about him, he sighs_ ) but never to him. He imagines there will be plenty more of that before it is all over. _I guess some things never change._

The word “target” and “termination” make their way through his mind. It seems like Dave has decided to show mercy after all.

His eyes move towards the duffle bag David had dumped in the front seat. It contains everything Hal had seen fit to take with him when he’d wanted to run. It isn’t much. A few changes of clothes, his computer, just the essentials for day to day…

…wait.

“…Dave?” he asks quietly, the very air around him feels as though it might shatter at any moment.

“…Where are we going?”

He makes sure the radio is shut down before saying:

 _“Didn’t you say you trusted me?”_ , and if he sounds irritated, answering Hal’s question with one of his own, it’s only natural. His adrenaline is the highest it has been in months, a lot to say for a 24-years-old war veteran and wetwork dog.

Dave speeds through the highway, the late hour meaning he’s able to simply dodge other cars instead of getting stuck in heavy traffic. He knows no police officer is going to stop and question a car like this one. He breathes in deeply, aching for a cigarette, but he’s almost out and it’s going to be a long night.

“Termination Site 51 is inside Harriman State Park. Another car will be waiting for me there so I can leave after shooting you and dumping the corpse at Lake Sebago.”

_'Breathe. Breathe.'_

Hal recoiled at the sharpness in Dave’s voice as he parroted his words to him. He nods again, still unsure of the man’s meaning but with a sense that something was wrong.

“That means, we’ll have less than four hours to reach the Canadian border before they discover we’re gone, and _I will need you to obey me_ if you want us to live.”

His heart drops at the mention of shooting but before he can process that future Dave continues and everything changes.

His lungs are empty. He tries to focus on breathing, but has forgotten how. There is no way the man can be serious about what he’s just said and yet he’s never seen someone more serious in his life. His mind floods with questions. Was it really possible? Where would they go after crossing the border? What will happen to Dave afterwards? And just…

Why?

However, as dumbfounded as he is, Hal can tell now isn’t the time for questions. Dave has demanded absolute compliance and he is going to get it.

“Just tell me what you want me to do.”

It’s better Hal doesn’t ask him why. Dave doesn’t want to think of his reasons either, and he’s not sure he’ll be able to just _act,_ summoning pure instinct and willpower, if he starts questioning why he’s doing this. There’s a good reason independent thinking isn’t especially encouraged at the military.

They _are_ going to survive this.

At least Hal has now promised him his total obedience.

Speeding as they had been, the car arrives at the _Termination Point_ shortly after the thirty-minute ETA Dave gave to his bosses. It’s past 2 A.M, as they drive towards the lake.

Dave didn’t respond to his question right away, but Hal remains still and attentive for the slightest word. He doesn’t know what has caused the agent to decide to disobey direct orders and abandon his mission, but he doesn’t want to ask questions. The answer doesn’t matter. Dave has clearly made a choice and if it means Hal gets to live a life outside of prison he will do whatever he has to.

Hal shivers as they approach the lake, the temperature having dropped by several degrees. He tries to curl up in the back seat despite the awkward angle of his arms. He is cold, sore and more exhausted than he’s ever been in his entire life as he is carried off in a speeding car by a complete stranger.

 _'But…'_ he thinks to himself… _'you get to live.'_

Dave hasn’t told Hal anything yet, because he still doesn’t have a proper plan beyond buying both of them some time, and improvising after that. He does best with On-Site procurement anyway.

The car screeches into a halt, wheels slipping on the gravel. They’re at a vantage point that looks out to the lake, and it would’ve been quite scenic in any other situation. He mutters a _‘follow my lead’_ , and turns on the radio, turning it up to the highest volume it’s capable of. “World Trade - Actual: Alfa-Sierra Two here. Stand-by.”

Hal hasn’t slept properly in days, but he has never been quite so awake as he is at this moment. His eyes are wide as he focuses completely on Dave, taking in his every movement, every last whispered word. He nods furiously at the man’s instruction, doing his best to key into every clue that might contribute to his continued existence.

Dave gets out the car, opens the back door, and drags Hal outside, violently- throws him to the gravel, desperately mouths a _‘beg’_ with no sound. This better appear as realistic as possible.

Hal feels a sharp tension in the back of his skull as Dave switches the radio back on, even a single thread connecting them back to the agency too much of a threat. Dave sounds so sure, so cold as he phones in, Hal thinks he must have imagined the thoughts of escape. As he is thrown to the ground it all seems so real, so visceral. The smell of the dirt is in his nostrils, mud smeared across his face, and the cold of the night has finally crept into his sore body and he can’t think straight, can’t remember what is real. He knows what Dave said before and yet…

David takes out his service gun then, standard 9mm Sig Sauer, from the holder at his back. Keeping his own breath even is difficult enough, but his hands -used to holding this weight- don’t shake at all. When he points it at Hal, taking the safety off… he knows he’s made the right decision. And that means his reasons don’t matter, not more than the outcome, at least.

“Please,” Hal whimpers. “Oh… oh my god, please. I’ll…I’ll do anything!” He isn’t much of an actor, but after today he finds it easy to summon the tears. “I’ll.. I’ll…” what? What the hell does he possibly have left to bargain with? He scrambles on the ground, still shaking with genuine fear because at any moment Dave could still decide this isn’t worth the trouble and change his mind.

He sees the gun and his mind goes blank.

“…I’ll..I’ll suck your cock!” too terrified to be embarrassed. “Just don’t kill me!”

He hears the gunfire and screams.

Dave fired into the ground, two meters away from his assigned target. He speaks loud and clear so HQ can hear it through the frequency:

“Mission complete. Proceeding to extraction vehicle. Out.”

His own body sings with the utter self-awareness of the battlefield, and yet, he doesn’t realize he’s panting until after he kills the radio, puts his gun back in the holster, and goes back to the panicked heap of a young man he left on the ground two seconds ago.

It’s like he’s registering Hal’s words just now, now when Dave knows there’s no going back, and they’re not being listened to anymore. Were it any other occasion, he might have slipped in a smartass comment on what his _mark_ had said.

But it is not the time, the situation too dire and urgent, and besides… _people say the most incredible things when their life is in danger._ It’d be stupid from him to think anything of it.

“You alright?”

_'Breathe. It’s done, you didn’t kill him.'_

To him, Hal looks terrified beyond being able to move, and he still hasn’t taken his handcuffs off. So Dave just grabs him by an arm, pulls him towards his chest. Still short of breath, he examines his eyes, looking for signals of shock. If the kid can’t stand to walk, he’ll just have to carry him through the woods. Every second counts, he can’t afford to let him freeze, or for him to get distracted.

_'Focus, Agent.'_

He unlocks the handcuffs, they fall to the ground with a dull sound.

“Pull yourself together. We need to get moving, **now.** “

Hal’s eyes open.

Even that is a surprise. His eyes open to see that the world is still there (although it quickly falls around him as Dave pulls him  from the ground), he is still in it, and there is a hole in the ground, not his head. The moment those facts settle his mind snap back into place.

“I.. y-yeah. I’m fine.”

When the cuffs fall to the ground it is a moment before he pulls his arms back in front of him. He resists the urge to rub his wrists, the way he’s always seen on TV for fear of agitating the angry red lines already there. For a moment he simply stares at the man, this stranger who has clearly just committed treason for his sake. He feels awed and overwhelmed, but his words snap him back to reality.

He runs to the seat to get his bag, and swoops down to pick up the cuffs, shoving them inside. “These would be a dead giveaway when they come looking, right?” Steeling himself he steps beside the man who had found his sorry life worth saving.

“You lead the way. I promise I’ll do whatever you tell me. I can’t…” he swallows, “I can’t say ‘You won’t regret this’ but…” He doesn’t know how to finish the thought, doesn’t know what thanks would be enough for a man who had saved his life at the risk of his own.

“Let’s go.”

“You’re full of surprises”, Dave admits out loud, before he can stop himself.

David had been fully prepared to throw a trembling boy over his shoulders to do the hike through the woods needed to reach their next vehicle. Instead, Hal moves, is proactive, picks up the cuffs before he even tells him.

This, he can respect.

“Maybe you won’t say it. But I will.” He goes to the trunk of the car, throws the weights he finds there the farthest he can into the lake. He doesn’t close the trunk before retrieving some of the ammo inside. The moon is high, and May means they aren’t going to freeze.

A tiny smile and shrug come from Hal. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he answers. Well, after today he’ll be happy to get the chance at a second impression. He weighs David’s words as he watches the man digging in the trunk of the car, throwing something into the water which he can only assume is meant to help throw the CIA off their trail.

Dave gestures with his chin towards the nearest trekking trail, away from the place where Hal’s body should’ve been sinking. “That’s the way.”

He doesn’t run, but each step is long and fast enough to nearly match it.

He wonders how the man can be so certain about this all. Even Hal isn’t certain and it’s his neck being saved. But there’s something in his words, something that makes it sound as though some part of David’s mind had been made up almost before the two of them ever met, like the man had been looking for a way out and Hal had been as good an escape as any.

Hal snaps out of it as David returns and points out the path. He’s probably never get to know the reason, which is fine. The two have their work cut out for them as it is.

David walks briskly and it’s all the boy can do to keep up. He hasn’t been taking care of himself lately, eating and sleeping irregularly if at all. It doesn’t take long for him to become winded, but he refuses to say anything, to make himself a burden. At least he doesn’t trip more than once or twice. Hal feels as though he might actually collapse but the sight of an empty car at the end of their trail gives him hope.

Hal might not be far off there. Maybe they’ll talk about it later. Maybe not. David has his mind set on the mission right now, the way he knows best, and while he keeps an eye on how the young man is doing to step in if if that’s the most efficient way to proceed, it doesn’t come to that. They reach the car as intended.

Dave doesn’t think much of opening the passenger’s door for Hal instead of the back one. He throws himself in the driver’s seat, starts the car and steps on the gas.

He makes sure the radio is shut down before he speaks, “I’ll be less worried if you tell me you can _disable_ that thing. Or if you have anything that would block a GPS tracking signal.”

_'Tell him he’s not putting too much stock in you, Hal. He saw your files.'_

Immediately Hal’s hands start scrambling through the glove compartment and through every cavity in the car’s interior. The GPS seems like a more immediate threat and he imagines it would be in a secure location, but not a wholly inaccessible one.

He finds it after a moment, a nondescript black casing attached with velcro under the seat. Just looking at the box fills him with concern. He knows how to take one apart, in theory but he has nothing in the way of tools and he doesn’t imagine he’d be able to take it apart with nothing but a dime to loosen the screws, at least not before they made it to the border and by then there would probably be a fleet of cars after them.

As they draw near to the exit of the park, Hal’s brow furrows in thought. “Stop the car!” he yells out suddenly.

Dave doesn’t hesitate to slam on the brakes to let Hal– Oh.

 _'You trust him',_ but the voice in his head is not really accusing. He waits, watches Hal act through the rear-view mirror, and grins. _And it had been the right thing to do, too._

 

As the wheels screech to a halt, Hal scrambles out of the seat, creeping low to the ground as he approaches a row of RV’s parked near the exit. In the wee hours, there is no one about to notice as he creeps under the nearest unit, one with the camper’s gear clearly packed up for an early departure. While a disrupted signal would immediately alert the CIA that something had gone awry, sending the signal in the wrong direction, any wrong direction, might send them on a chase that could buy them some time.

Within a few moments he’s returned to the car. “Let’s get out of here.”

“That was one hell of a good move”, he says when Hal comes back, because he may be in Mission Mode, but he’s not so damaged yet he can’t recognize it out loud. The better they both are attuned to thinking outside the box, the more their chances of survival improve.

“Thanks. I just hope it works.” Hal can’t deny David’s words are probably the coolest compliment he was likely to receive in his entire life. _A CIA operative, no, a_ ** _rogue_** _CIA operative just told you you did a good job. This would be awesome if you weren’t both running for your lives. It… might still be a little awesome._ He feels practically giddy from the adrenaline and his hands start running frantically over the face of the radio, eager to prove himself again.

“Any other ideas for the radio, then?”, Dave asks as he starts the car again.

He’s not the expert in technology here, and he’s deferring to Hal. Meanwhile he’ll speed through the empty roads, remembering maps and thinking of possible routes.

Maybe the solution won’t lie in just making the other one just _obey_. Maybe the answer will be in _teamwork._ And Dave works solo, has always done it that way. Solo, with some kind of remote backup as an emergency measure. The concept feels foreign, but the pragmatist in him won’t let him dwell on it.

Not yet.

“Not yet,” Hal admits, “but I’m thinking. We mostly just need to shut it down, right? Make sure no one’s listening in? There’s a chance they could try to track us through the signal, but it’s not going to be their first move as long as the GPS is still operational.” He is talking to himself as much as he is to Dave. “Still, I’ve got to get it open…”

He pulls open his bag, rummaging through it in the hopes of finding something useful. He hadn’t packed any tools, but at this point he feels obligated to give anything a shot. After a moment his fingers wrap around a small plastic tube. “Bingo….” he whispers.

“Bless my stupid near-sighted face.” He pulls the tiny screwdriver from the tube. It isn’t much and won’’t stand up to a great deal of use, but at a time like this it is more than he could have hoped for. “Eyeglass repair kit,” he beams. “It’s going to be tough getting in, the screws aren’t the right size and it’s dark, but I’ll get it done.” He smiles, practically cheerful as the two of them speed down the road.

He almost has the face plate off when they hit a bump in the road and the tiny screwdriver jolts from its slot across his hand. “SHIT!” He yells, grasping tightly at the cut that is now bleeding across his lap.

David can’t pay a lot of attention to Hal right now, with his eyes on the poorly lit road. He spares a glance at the smell of blood, grimaces. “First-Aid kit is in the glove box–” he starts saying, but then realizes _something_ , stops the car as fast as he can without actually slamming on the breaks violently.

Hal’s hand is already searching the glove compartment when he feels the car swerve onto the shoulder of the road. He’s thrown forward slightly at the sudden stop. “Jeezus!” He exclaims.

Call him paranoid, but he can’t stop thinking _the CIA didn’t have samples of your DNA, and now they will._ And it’s so absurd, because they’re going to comb this car, they’ll look for any traces of hair and fluid. But… he pulls over.

“Let me take a look at that”, he says, and all the tension from before is back. He hadn’t realized how much of it had decompressed after Hal disposed of the GPS, after they had made it out of the park and into the road. He takes his hand, opens it, and locates the cut. It’s deep enough to bleed profusely, but not enough it goes all the way to the muscle.

“Breathe deeply and toughen up”, it’s the only thing he says before he pours hydrogen peroxide all over it. All in all, could’ve been worse. He could’ve used alcohol.

Without letting go of Hal’s wrist, tightly grasped, he pours peroxide over the screwdriver and the carpet, too. They can’t leave any traces of hemoglobin here. Better to stain it white than let the CIA spray luminol all over the car and pick up a sample.

His breathing is choppy as he stares down at his hand in David’s, almost white against the other man’s palm. He barely has time to process the warning before the sting of peroxide overcomes all other feelings. “SSSSSSSHIIIIT!” He hisses, biting his lip with a whimper. His eyes close tightly as he focuses on breathing and for a moment he’s confused as David continues to pour the liquid all over the car before realizing the cause.

“Oh god… I’m sorry. I wasn’t being careful…” he looks down at the gash in his hand, still bleeding as his fingers hunt for a ball of gauze in the kit. “If we wrap it, I.. I can probably still work on the radio. At least, I can try!”

Dave realizes he hasn’t loosened the grip on Hal’s wrist yet, and lets go with a grunt.

 “Shit happens”, he mutters, as he screws the lid back on the peroxide bottle. No use on taking his frustrations out on him, nothing good would come of it. It’ll be better if he just helps him patch up wound so they can resume their  _trip,_ nodding pleased when Hal so resolutely affirms how he still wants to solve the radio problem.

At least his irritation is quick to go down, and Dave realizes, his own hands are shaking less than Hal’s anyway. So he takes the gauze from him, and takes it on wrapping it himself, careful but swift, and securing it with a strip of adhesive tape.

He’s still stressed enough to be dearly missing a cigarette - he tended to chain-smoke if he was tense while having limited movement. But then he remembers he might not be able to buy another pack before they cross the border, and just fiddles with the screwdriver for a second, before handing it back to his rightful owner.

“… Better if you take off that plate before I start the car again, don’t you think?”

And he does his best to attempt a small, tense smile to show he’s willing to trust you to work with what they have, that he’s not angry.

Hal simply watches David as he pulls the gauze taut expertly around his hand. There is still some stinging, but Hal imagines he’ll make it through. It isn’t as though he has much of a choice anyway. But finds that more than simply needing to succeed, he _wants_ to succeed. The idea of performing admirably, perhaps garnering another compliment from David inspires him.

And David is content to remain at the side of the road, which is another good sign. He’s willing to gamble a few extra moments sitting still because he… what… believes in Hal? The boy can’t let him down now. Nodding furiously he gets back to work and despite the fact that his hands are trembling and his left hand is stiff beneath the gauze in a few moments the face plate pops free.

“Got it!” He cheers in his mind as he stares into the jumble of wires, tracing them with his fingers and creating a map in his mind. He begins tugging at some of them, pulling them from their spots on the board. “All right, that’s the microphone gone… do you want me to leave the speaker intact? Want any incoming messages? Or just blow the whole thing?”

He looks up at David expectantly, eager to please, but he feels his stamina running out. He’s been running on fumes for quite some time, but refuses to let exhaustion take over until he knows he’s done his job.

Of course Dave is willing to wait for this. This is not something in _his_ skillset, he wouldn’t have thought of anything beyond thoroughly destroying the radio… and now Hal is offering him to keep it mostly intact, so they can listen in, while crippling it enough so The Company is not able to listen to _them._

“Leave the speaker”, he says, and then adds, “Good job.”

Because it’s rightfully deserved. He gets the motor running once again, gives Hal a last look before going back to the road and– “You look terrible.”

He clarifies, thinking of how many miles they have left, calculating shortcuts and exits in case they get tailed, thinking how the hell are they going to cross over that border: “Better to sleep while you can.”

The radio is already halfway back into its slot when Hal cringes, feeling oddly sheepish at Dave’s assessment. He paws at his face with his bandaged hand and it’s rough against his dry skin.

“Are you sure?” He asks weakly, “I… I could still…maybe…” But his head is dropping as his eyelids close. “…You’re right,” he admits as he curls into a ball in his seat, seat belt cutting into him slightly because _‘safety first’._

He’s quiet for a few minutes and it seems as though he’s asleep until he speaks. “You… you’ve done so much for me” A yawn followed by a pause and finally a whisper. “…I just don’t want to leave you alone.” 

Head up against the glass, bandaged hand held to his chest, Hal sleeps more soundly than he has in weeks.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Defying all logic and certainly all of his training, David has taken his mark and gone on the run. Their next move is to cross the border, but that's easier said than done, especially when Hal's old ghosts return to haunt them.

All in all, David is glad Hal is listening to him. Everything that has happened would’ve exhausted _any_ civilian, and he’s observant enough to have his suspicions about the sleeping habits of the one he has just…

 

_Rescued?_

Something in his chest tightens at Hal’s last last words before falling asleep, and refuses to let  go. He has been alone for a long time now, and even before Operation N313, his life wasn’t exactly rife with certainties. Whatever happens now… they’re going to stick together.

 

...Out of necessity, at least. No use in saving Hal Emmerich’s life if he is just going to abandon him as soon as the border is crossed, isn’t it? He knows better than most how long are the CIA’s arms. And now that he has defected too, there’s no way to go back.

 

He had wanted to leave from the start, since they found him and forced him out of retirement, dangling his file in front of his eyes and telling him how he’d never be able to run away fast or far enough from his past.

 

Why, of all the questionable things he has done under their command on the last year, was this the last straw? Had it been just that David had put up with The Company’s bullshit and bloodbaths for far too long, until he had been ready to just _leave_ at the slightest, next provocation? Is it because he instinctively knew when he saw Hal’s file, how maybe he could make it out alive too, as long as he had the right person to come with him?

 

_That’s absurd. I didn’t plan for this._

Irritated, he chews his lip in silence in absence of tobacco, and pops a Provigil from the first-aid kit, knowing it will be a long time before he allows himself any rest. These are  questions he doesn’t want to start mulling over. And as he had dreaded, they’ve come back to haunt him now, when all that’s left to him is to drive in silence so as to not wake up his passenger, without distractions.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at the sleeping young man next to him. The peaceful expression on his face, vulnerable still but so relaxed, suits him better than the hysterical, panicked laughter he had seen on him earlier. At least one of them got to lower their guard for a second, get some shut-eye…

 

_He said  “I just don’t want to leave you alone”. Not out of necessity. He has said nothing like  “don’t leave me to die”, or a “I need you to stick around so this is not for nothing”. He said “want”._

Everything feels unfamiliar.

 

Hal never even asked him to let him live, not even once. He threw himself at David’s feet for a chance to _help others_ , not to plead for himself; and when asked if he would rather die by his hand than get sent to camp, said he trusted his judgement. Dave is certain Hal is not using him, or at least, not yet… and given the kind of life he has led, it has to be a first.

 

Still driving through empty roads, way over the speed limit, Dave lets the hours wash over him.

 

In his dreams, Hal is always drowning.

 

It doesn’t take Freud to reason out the cause, and Hal isn’t stupid by any means. That doesn’t make it any easier. He’s almost grown accustomed to the sensation of the crushing pressure building inside his chest. The chill of the water is familiar. As he’s pulled down into the black he stops struggling, accepting what is to come. It will all be over soon.

 

And then he sees the hand. It’s reaching down to him, of all people: Hal, who is least deserving of help. Curiously, tentatively, he reaches up to take it. There’s a sharp sound of metal clicking that’s at odds with the murky silence of the water and Hal sees a silver glint around his wrist and the almost imperceptible, threadlike chain that ends around the hand that takes his own.

 

_“It’s in your best interests to let me in.”_

Hal wakes with a start, a moment of panic waving over him as unfamiliar surroundings come in to view. It’s still dark out, but a sliver of red is threatening to bleed through the trees at any moment. His eyes dart to the side and he sees David driving with a grim expression on his face. Hal’s body relaxes as he takes a deep breath, announcing himself to the agent.

 

“It’s been a few hours then?” he asks, still groggy but feeling much better than he has in days. “We must be coming close. Do… w-we finish this on foot?”

 

It is strange, then, how he doesn’t notice his own frown relaxing at hearing Hal’s voice upon waking up. “Finish on foot? Yeah… we should”, he mutters, more to himself than anything, and rubs at the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t let go of the wheel to stretch, feeling the pull of the muscles on his back complaining. He’ll be more in his element after he gets them both into open space - pent-up adrenaline and being cramped into the tiny space of this car for hours was not a good mix, even if he _did_ rather like tiny spaces as places to relax.

 

Even since Hal had heard David mention Canada he’s been trying to make some kind of a plan. He doesn’t know how long Dave is planning on sticking around (a guy like that has to have secret contacts, safe-houses, spy stuff, right?) and he’s afraid to ask. As for Hal, he has… well he has half a dozen granola bars, a bottle of water and sixty dollars. American. Oh, and an eyeglass repair kit, so there is that.

 

He doesn’t think Dave is just going to dump him somewhere across the border, hopes not, not just because they’re both on the run, but… well.

 

Dave has been honest with him. Not because he has to be, not because he wants something from Hal, and certainly not because it has been in his best interest. Hal hasn’t had a lot of experience with honesty. His own father omitted the truth. His step-mother manipulated it. Even his online contacts parsed out information, using it as currency to be exchanged. For the first time in his life Hal has met someone who told him the truth because they what, thought he _deserved_ it? As though Hal is deserving of anything beyond a bullet to the head or a prison cell.

 

And now, after a single taste of the truth, Hal finds himself addicted. He wants more. He wants all the honesty Dave can give him, and to share his own truths in return.

 

He reaches down into his bag and pulls out a plastic bottle, holding it out to Dave. “Hey, uh, thirsty?” he asks.

 

Despite the Modafinil he swallowed earlier, Dave is tired. Not so much physically, but psychologically.

 

The time limit he calculated earlier -four hours- has already been crossed. It’s not safe to continue their escape in this car, and he knows they’ll have to dispose of it, the sooner, the better. He used to be an infiltration agent, and that meant he was patient enough to wait _hours_ for the right opening, the exact moment to act and slip by unnoticed. He has discovered now, how being on the run requires a different kind of patience.

 

He has never done this with a civilian in tow, either, and his mood feels positively _grim._ He has nobody to trust, and his current contacts -safehouse owners, money launderers, ID forgers- are all either CIA or people who wouldn’t hesitate to sell him out to them.

 

_Ask him how he slept. It’s what properly socialized people do._

But he doesn’t, feeling that the moment for it is gone. The sky looks lighter by the minute, a dull gray now instead of pitch-black. And then Hal goes and surprises him again, offering him water first. It’s the little things that make Dave realize how thoroughly unused to _kindness_ he his, and by the time he stretches out a hand to accept the bottle, he’s grinning. “Thanks, kid”, he says, opening the bottle one-handed, taking a long swig. He offers the bottle back to Hal, and as he does, he notices the signal - 5 miles until Watertown, NY.

 

“Hn. Say, what do you think ‘bout getting you under a shower soon?”

 

Hal smiles as he takes the bottle back. _Thanks? Oh, that sounds nice…_

“Sure,” he nods and pauses for a moment. He glances down at the bottle for a fraction of a second and then back at Dave before taking a drink himself. He instantly feels relieved, his last drink had been long ago.

Flecks of dried mud have fallen onto the seat around him. A week’s worth of poor self-care combined with the very realistic mishandling David had given him resulted in his looking more like some kind of Dickensian street urchin than an elite hacker. He pulls his hoodie around him more as he shifts in his seat. “I think… yeah. That sounds like heaven,” he answers.

 

Rubbing the last of the sleep from his eyes he peers out the window, straining to read the signs that are flying by. “Looks like… there’s a truck station at the next exit. I can get cleaned up, we can figure out what to do with the car and… uh…” he casts a sideways glance at David. “I mean don’t take this the wrong way or anything, that’s a good suit, you look great- but you also look…” he clears his throat. “…you know. Like… a guy who kills people for a living. Or… used to, at any rate. Ah, here’s the exit!”

_“You look great, but, like a guy who kills people for a living.” Huh._

The car pulls around the back of the station, populated with drivers even in the small hours of the morning. For the most part they seem unconcerned by the gangly teenager, more interested in grabbing a quick bite or nap for themselves. The cashier looks as though she might lecture Hal on how some of the facilities are for “drivers only” but she takes one look at the mud and look of defeat he’s wearing and hands him a towel and a key for a locker.

 

“Good thing we haven’t crossed the border,” Hal whispers to Dave. “We can still use American currency. Should we try to exchange it somewhere? Or just use it now and be done with it?” He’s never been ‘on the run’ before. Is there some textbook agents have to study to learn how to avoid capture? And if there was, would they even be following it now? Chapter One is probably “Don’t pick up stupid kids when you go”, he muses.

Dave allows Hal to work his magic in what would’ve been one unfriendly cashier otherwise. Still, David’s not sure he’s following Hal’s leaps in thought. They still haven’t crossed - in fact, crossing the border might become one of the most difficult things they still have to do, though hopefully they’d manage to accomplish that before noon. They’re going to need some of that money, for food and bus fare. Watertown is the closest town to the several crossings in the region, but it’s still not _immediately next_ to them.

 

He has some cash as well, and enough of it that exchanging some would be the smarter option, if they wanted some place to rest once they were in Canada other than the less glamorous options of “under a bridge” or “squatting in an abandoned summer house”.  He files the idea for later. There’s one thing that needs to get taken care of, ASAP.

 

 

Shouldering his bag Hal makes off for the shower room. “I’ll be really fast, promise.”

 

David outright _dislikes_ leaving Hal alone right now, but the car has to go, and he already got an idea on how to make it disappear. And he’ll be faster if he goes on his own. Hesitant, he reaches for the young man’s shoulder before he leaves for the shower, makes him turn around.  “You go do that. I’m going to buy us some more time”

 

He gives him a firm squeeze, hoping to reassure him, and speaks low but firm. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes, twenty-five at most. I promise. Get some breakfast in you meanwhile, alright?”

 

_Please trust me._

“Just blend in. And don’t you dare to leave this place on your own before I come back.”

 

_I’m trusting you too. And if I don’t see you here… I’ll know they found us._

David turns around to leave, and throws his black tie on the nearest trashcan, jingling the car keys in his pocket. His next stop - The nearest dam of the Black River, three miles away.

Hal gasps at the sudden pressure on his shoulder and finds himself face to face with Dave again. A tiny squeak escapes from him as he nods, taking in the man’s directions. He stands still on the spot for a moment until David prepares to leave.David turns around, and throws his black tie on the nearest trashcan, jingling the car keys in his pocket. His next stop - The nearest dam of the Black River, three miles away.

 

Hal feels a little nervous at first, still worrying that at any moment Dave might think better of the whole arrangement, but then he sees the tie land in the trashcan, and a small smile breaks out on his face. Without wasting another moment, he makes his way to the showers.

 

The water is hot, far too hot, temperature options limited in the basic shower stall. It stings, needles against his skin, but he leans into the pressure and scrubs himself raw. He hasn’t been taking care of himself lately, not that he ever did a particularly good job. His meals have been irregular, hygiene all but ignored. It had been hard to summon the energy to care for himself when he never felt like he was worth caring about.

 

He steps out of the water and into the locker room, quickly dressing before any of the intended patrons of the showers came in. It is probably a good idea to attract as little attention as possible at every possible instance. He dresses quickly in a fresh shirt and jeans, thankful not to be covered in mud any more, at least.

 

Stepping back into the main floor of the truck stop he returns the keys to the cashier with a quick thank you and she points him in the direction of the stop’s small 24-hour diner. A tired looking waitress tells him to seat himself and he finds an inconspicuous corner table where he can keep an eye out for David’s return.

 

“Oh… man… pancakes…” he murmurs softly, flipping the menu over and looking at the faded photographs. He places an order for himself, then thinks better of it and flags down the waitress, asking for an additional sandwich and coffee, to go. When his food arrives he attacks it like a man on the verge of starvation, which in some ways, is entirely accurate.

The waitress comes back around to refill his mug and gives him a tired smile. “Been on the road long?” She asks him.

 

“…feels that way,” he answers. “But I’m on the way back home.”

\---

 

The Black River rushes fast and dark, the turbulence making its acidic water foam at the bottom of the dam.

 

David makes sure he isn’t being followed or watched. Balancing himself between traveling light, without disregarding potentially useful items in the trunk, he decides to just carry with him the weapons and ammo he can conceal easily within his holders, including a hunting knife, and a Swiss-Army blade. The money, already safely stored in the inner pocket of his jacket.

 

Leaving all the windows open for optimal sinking, he takes off the hand-brake and gives the car a push. Gravity takes care of the rest, and it isn’t long until it is impossible to see any remains of the vehicle amidst the raging current below.

 

_Evidence gone, and now there won’t be a way to track those plates._

With no other means of transportation, David just runs back the three miles to the truck stop. It is good to stretch like this, to get moving in a more physical way to rid himself of the nervous energy and all the anxiety that has steadily accumulated in the bottom of his stomach. He never trusted shrinks, and even less the CIA shrinks who were all too happy to deem him fit for service, but he could give them this - inactivity suited him as poorly as the mental inertia he fell in whenever he didn’t have a mission.

His inner clock reassures him of being in time - he arrived short of the 20 minutes mark. He spots Hal from the outside, and thus the last of his (current) worries is assuaged. The next thing the teen will notice is David taking the seat next to him, slightly short of breath, shirt rumpled, and probably in better spirits than he had been since they met.

 

“Everything alright?”

 

“Grrt!” Hal’s says through a mouthful of pancakes. “I mean, yeah, great.” He gives David a cheerful smile, as though the two of them are on vacation, not running for their lives. “Just finished up here, I’ve paid and everything. Got you this.” He nudges the paper coffee cup and breakfast sandwich, wrapped tightly in wax paper. “Figured we might be headed out as soon as you got back, but I know I feel better when I have something in my system besides… uh… nothing.”

 

Noticing David is out of breath he gives him a concerned look. “Are you okay?” He whispers. “Do you need to take a minute? I know we’ve been going at it pretty hard and you haven’t even had a chance to rest. He gently lays a hand on Dave’s shoulder, peering into his face. “It’s no good if either one of us breaks down, you know? Oh.. shoot…”

 

He picks up his hand, making a face. “Ick… um.. sorry Dave.” Hal grimaces. “I got a bit of um…” he points at Dave’s shoulder. “Syrup.” He fumbles quickly at the table pulling the napkin from under his glass and attempts a few quick brushes. “Icing on the cake, right? Or.. pancake, I guess…” He mumbles to himself.

 

It’s good, though. That Hal is cheerful like this -it lets Dave know he isn’t as scared anymore, which means he can _participate_ in this instead of just blindly following his lead. He has already had a glimpse of the brilliance of this civilian in completely unfamiliar, dangerous situations, and has been wondering for hours if things wouldn’t go better if they stood as equals. And they’ll stand out less this way, too. In daylight, with Hal freshly out of the showers and in decent clothes, he looks a little bit more like the adult he is, and they can pass as a couple of friends on a trip, lack of backpacks notwithstanding.

 

“Thanks”, he says, and it shouldn’t _surprise him_ anymore, how Hal is waiting on him with breakfast, how he keeps on taking care of him in these little ways, but it does. He can’t quite remember the last time someone had done so. Gray Fox, probably, before he got too old for it and his friend started making jokes about babying his rookie ass. It’s unfamiliar, but not in a bad way– _it’s nice._ He decides, “I don’t really _need_ to take a minute, yet. But it’ll be good to sit down so we can plan the next move.”

 

But Hal is checking on him, _worried_ , and Dave lets him, welcoming the closeness and contact. Letting him see he is alright. The thing with the syrup actually gets a chuckle out of him. “Heh. Don’t sweat it”; and it’s a little bit amusing how distressed Hal has become about something like a stain on his jacket, considering how far from pristine his pants are, also stained with last night’s mud. “It’s not like I like the uniform. Would’ve let it sink too, but I can’t take it off just yet.” Right now, the jacket is the only thing he has to conceal the shoulder and back holsters he’s wearing underneath.

 

“Eh?” Hal seems momentarily puzzled at Dave’s comment regarding his uniform. As he’d been getting dressed he’d half wondered if he should plan on offering the man one of his extra shirts. The idea of David in a ‘Policenauts’ tee had made him laugh at the time but he now realizes that despite the current calm mood, they’re still both very much in danger and as such need protection. His eyes dart down for a moment to the lapel’s of David’s coat and he is reminded that this is a man who can kill, who _has_ killed in the past. If he had any sense he’d still be terrified of him.

 

But… he’s not. David is relaxing next to him, thoughtfully chewing a mouthful of biscuit and egg like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

 

After studying the little diner they are in, ever-watchful, he decides they’ll be safe enough as long as they kept their voices low. Dave takes out a map of the region, and extends it over the table. He takes a bite off his sandwich (which is actually quite decent), and starts explaining as he eats, the different routes they have and their various levels of difficulty.

 

Reaching for the smokes in his pocket as he finishes, Dave adds - He’s quite partial to just _borrowing_ a boat and cross making it look like a leisurely ride through the Thousand Islands, though.

 

Hal peers down at the maps on the table, tracing the various routes with his fingertip, listening as Dave begins unloading information on him. There’s no two ways about it, they’re going to have to cross water, and despite Hal’s personal misgivings about the idea, the less time they spend on land the more difficult they will be to track.

 

 “So a boat then,” he says out loud, forcing confidence into his tone. “Something small that won’t be obviously missed and can be hidden once we reach the other side. Best case scenario they’ll assume some kids took it for a joy-ride.” He adjusted his glasses, thinking a bit before he continues. “It’s probably too idealistic to expect to find a custom fit out there though, but I think you’re right. The islands are a big tourist draw. We won’t attract any attention there in the crowd, and we’ll be more likely to find some transport. Plus if someone does start asking questions, we can just play dumb.”

 

He leaned back in his chair and gave Dave a sheepish smile. “And I’m pretty sure I can do that.”

 

“You’ve done quite well so far”, Dave counters, a little bit puzzled until he remembers the kind of stuff Hal had said to him last night. That he considered himself _useless, disposable._

  
Which was the _exact kind of thing_ David had thought of himself in the first place, wasn’t it? Just a mindless killer, brought back from retirement to do the only thing he knew? Dave furrows his brow and lights up his cigarette to avoid pursuing that train of thought (turning a blind eye to the greasy “no smoking” sign on the wall - it’s barely visible anyway).

 

 

“The bridge is another possibility, since it’s permitted to just stroll through it back and forth as tourists. We could slip by. But it won’t be easy, as two people.” He exhales, and takes a sip of his still-hot coffee for good measure. Caffeine and nicotine dance in his bloodstream, sharpening his senses once again. “And, crossing by bus or ferry would require us having some sort of ID. I’m actually counting on you to figure out a way to get us some, but I know that’s not going to happen until we’ve settled down _sorta safely_ across the border on the first place.”

 

_Come on. Isn’t it telling, that he’s trusting you this much? He knows what you’re capable of. Pull yourself together, “Otacon”._

Dave turns a little on his seat, looks for Hal’s eyes to hold his gaze: “You don’t seem too comfortable about crossing by boat, though.”

 

David was… counting on him? Up until this point Hal has felt like little more than extra baggage, some kind of charity case that Dave has taken on for unfathomable reasons. Sure he’d disabled the radio and gotten rid of the GPS to buy them some time but… well wasn’t that basic? Stuff anyone who’d ever seen a spy movie would think to do. But the way David speaks to him, there is something more to it- Hal is beginning to suspect that he’d been looking for a way out long before he knocked on some awkward nerd’s door.

 

His brow furrows, partially in thought but also from the sudden scent of smoke coming from Dave’s cigarette. He glances quickly at the plastic sign on the wall and then at the waitress who is too busy leaning over today’s paper to pay them much attention. _You’ll hack into government files and hand them off to strangers, but you draw the line at smoking in restaurants? You’re going to have to leave that way of thinking behind, Hal._

“Of.. of course. I can do it,” he says determinedly. He’s actually never procured anything of the sort, rarely dealing in tangible goods, but he knows people who do handle that kind of thing, and with any luck he still has one or two reliable contacts left.

 

He looks away from David, picking at the edges of his napkin. “It’s- it’s not a big deal.  I can swim just fine, actually- pretty well. And if it’s the safest way to go about it, then we should definitely go with that. I just…” Tiny rips appear at the napkin’s edge. “Just in the past, some… things happened. Water can make me feel a little on edge. I’ve had dreams…”

 

He pauses for a minute before snapping back to attention. “But don’t let it worry you. I’m not going to fall apart because of a little water. You…you’re counting on me, right?” And he isn’t going to let that be a mistake.

 

“I am”, Dave says, firmly, because it’s the truth. And besides, Hal has just reassured him of his abilities. Maybe Hal wouldn’t be able to procure the papers immediately, but the important part is that he _could_.

 

But David had also had been observing every minute gesture. It’s not like he is that much of an expert at reading people beyond what he has needed as part of his _work skills,_ but Hal’s avoidance and nervous tics aren’t that hard to pick up. Noticing he has finished his pancakes, Dave folds the map again, puts it in his pocket. “We can finish this conversation outside.”

 

He gulps down what’s left of his coffee, leaves a couple of coins as a tip, and goes to the counter to buy a new pack of Lucky Strikes, giving Hal time to gather his belongings before leaving the truck stop for good.

It’s only after they’re walking along the road outside that Dave speaks again, around a lungful of smoke:

 

“Do you have a phobia of water?”

 

_It’s not prying if you ask. It’s natural to take that into account, you don’t want him having a panic attack right in the middle of the river. You don’t have to get into the subject of nightmares, or causes, or…_

 

It’s still three miles until they reach Watertown, NY. It’ll be good to just air out these things now while they’re on an empty road.  Any of the routes they take later, to get closer to the border, are going to involve being around other people and feigning normalcy, at least for a short while.

 

Hal stops abruptly at Dave’s question, assuming his earlier determination would have been enough to put the matter to rest. He knows what’s wrong with him. He knows exactly what the problem is. He… has no idea what to tell Dave.

 

“I’m not sure how to answer the question,” he answers at last. “It’s… it’s not the water that’s the problem exactly.” Where does he even begin? Dave doesn’t need to hear his entire pathetic past, he decides. Just the relevant details. Keep it basic and brief.

 

“It’s not like I’m afraid of actually drowning,” he begins again. “Sometimes I feel the same way just looking at a photo of the beach, you know? It’s just that the water reminds me of… other things, and if I let that get to me I eventually…” he wrestles with himself, trying to find the words. “…close up?” He shrugs, unsure if he’s making any sense. “Shutting down. I get wrapped up in what happened, you know, and it’s easy to let it take over and then I’m out for days. But… we can’t afford that kind of bullshit right now.”

 

He tries to focus on the unpleasant scent of the smoke. He still doesn’t like it, but at the very least it’s become a signal for his brain than Dave is near. Hopefully that won’t change once the man realizes he’s bought damaged goods. “Maybe it won’t matter this time though, we’ve… we’ve got a lot more to deal with. If I can keep my mind off of the other stuff, I’ll be fine.”

 

If Hal is “damaged goods”, where does that leave him, though?

 

Hal’s description of his phobia (because whether he likes it or not, it pretty much fits the bill, complete with panic attacks), makes David suddenly very aware of how he doesn’t ever _touch_ the medication he got prescribed unless the nightmares do a come back to mess him up. And even then, he only takes the Xanax, so he can go back to sleep.

 

He decides right there, he’ll deal with them _the old-fashioned way_ , if they come.

 

_When they come. Not ‘if’._

Suddenly living in close quarters with someone else sounds like a terrible idea.

 

He does his best to sound as competent and strong and sure of himself as Hal has known him until now, and doesn’t notice how in the process he also reverted to his previous severity. “No. You’re absolutely right. I don’t want you shutting down on a boat. We’ll go over the bridge.”

 

Probably a second or two later than he should have, gentler, “I wouldn’t put you through that. Not unless we didn’t have any other options.”

 

And it’s terrible, because he’s pretty sure they _will_ be able to slip through the border unnoticed with some care and effort, even if it _is_ the less safe way. But the thing that has him worried now is how the hell are they going to cohabit - since he knows abandoning Hal anytime soon would more or less equate _killing him_. Trusting others on the battlefield, that he can do. Has done it before, at least, before Outer Heaven and the CIA. Sharing space with other people, with _anyone else_ , so they can actually get know him– he doesn’t do that.

 

“Really?” He asks, surprised. “Are you sure? I really think I could make it- I don’t want to risk everything just because I got a freaked out…” He trails off, his voice fading. This isn’t just getting a little ‘freaked out’ and if he shuts down on the water he’ll be dead weight to Dave, worse, even.

 

 “…The bridge is probably better,” he admits at last.

 

“Thanks.” he’s a bit uncomfortable at having to tell Dave all of this, perhaps even more so at the man’s quick acceptance of it. And why should he be surprised? Not twenty-four hours ago he was a sobbing pile at his feet. Why wouldn’t David have expected him to come with a laundry list of issues?

 

He takes a deep breath and to his credit doesn’t even cough at the smoke still surrounding them. “Okay. Well let’s uh… cross that bridge when we come to it.” He offers a stupid smile to go along with his joke.

 

The two of them head out into the street, Hal’s head darting around more than is probably strictly necessary. There are bus stops not far ahead, but before they head to one, Hal tugs as David’s arm. “Hey- remember what I said before?” He points to a small second-hand store before casting a look down at David’s pants, clearly the victim of a scuffle.

 

The two emerge not twenty minutes later with two new sets of pants and a few nondescript shirts for Dave. Most of the lot are shoved into Hal’s bag, but Dave had opted to switch out of his mud spattered dress pants and into a pair of well-worn jeans.

 

“Look on the bright side,” Hal chirps. “They’re already worn in so you don’t have to worry about ripping them up yourself. Did you know that a few years ago some of the brands tried to sell pre-ripped jeans? Crazy right? Actually…”

 

He continues to chatter on as they board the bus towards the border. If Dave minds, Hal fails to notice and keeps on talking about denim, designers and the natural order of things. It’s silly really, but he finds it calms his nerves. And who knows? Maybe Dave will even find it interesting.

 

David himself is the furthest thing of a chatterbox, but he doesn’t mind Hal’s light conversation. He even adds little questions or brief expressions to keep Hal going, reassured of his attention. Every little “normal” interaction helps them pass as the tourists they are supposed to be. But it would have been a lie to pretend Hal’s collection of random trivia and weird metaphors wasn’t interesting in its own way- made him smile despite the tension boiling inside. And it would’ve been equally untrue to say it’s also because he doesn’t want the space to keep on mulling over Hal’s issues in ways that are not _practical._

Back then in the apartment, and also on the road, he had the unfamiliar feeling of _wanting_ to know, _wanting_ to ask, but Dave knows those are the kind of things he shouldn’t pry into unless he is willing to offer a little of himself in return.

 

_You are not, and you know it. If you’re going to stay together, you have to keep it cool._

All in all, they were lucky the seasonal shuttle bus service from Watertown to Wellesley Island State Park had started already. Renting a taxi would’ve meant a way more specific, involved interaction. This way, the bus would leave them right at the northern entrance, and they could sneak further north and closer to the bridge through the park instead of by the road where everyone would immediately detect their non-motorist status. It’s not a long trip, and when the bus stops they climb down amidst a big group of literal happy campers. Dave takes the map out, gives it a quick look, and sounds cheerful enough to not raise anyone’s eyebrows when he suggests, pointing: “Okay so, our friends told us they would be… that way, but near the shore.”

 

“So… Are you ok for a short trek? Rested enough?

 

Hal’s eyebrow quirks for a fraction of a second at Dave’s sudden switch to a brighter disposition and the mention of friends, but he quickly realizes the intent. “Right, yeah!” He replies. “We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

 

He slings the bag back over his shoulder and adjusts it until he’s comfortable. “Just on the other side of the bridge, right?” He actually rather enjoys pretending, even if it’s just for a moment. It’s almost as though the two of them aren’t on the run, aren’t wanted men, aren’t trying to sneak across an international border to an uncertain future. No, if he keeps smiling, keeps pretending, he can imagine that they’re just two friends on a trip and that there’s nothing waiting for them on the other side besides beautiful scenery.

 

But if he’s honest with himself, Hal has never been on a trip like that- never had anyone to go with. His father had made promises when he was younger, before Hal had realized how empty the words were and Huey became disinterested in pretending to care. But if he had had a friend to travel with, well, he imagined he could have done a lot worse than someone like Dave.

 

The entrance of the bridge is a short walk away and it seems almost surreal that it’s right there, right in front of them. Even though they’ve only been on the run for a single night, it feels like much longer. Hal watches briefly as groups and couples approach the entrance, generally having to shuffle into a single file on its narrow walkway.  He steps out onto the path, checking behind him to make sure Dave is following. They’re even a few meters out before he glances down at the water.

 

“Nope. Nope, stop it Hal,” he whispers to himself. “Rule number one is don’t look down.” He closes his eyes and takes a moment to breathe and regain his composure as his grip tightens on the handle of his bag. “I’m fine,” he tells himself, but he can’t help casting another glance back at Dave.

 

It’s not like there are so many visitors. But the way the queue forms, squeezing all of previously disorderly group into a single line to pass through that walkway, cars going right by their side… Dave has to go right behind Hal instead of in front of him. Saying he is “unhappy” about it would be both an understatement, and a complete disrespect to his well-justified paranoia.

 

Because, even if he indeed enjoys Hal’s company (there was no use in denying that much), and enjoys being back into a place where the sounds of civilization fall low enough to be easily drowned by the nature surrounding them all, he doesn’t forget what they’re doing here. And how by this time, the CIA has all too probably discovered the ruse.

 

_Rookie mistakes all over… Should’ve never lowered my guard. Should have knocked the civilian out and grabbed him to just run the most efficient way, and never mind anything else._

The CIA, which doesn’t usually work inside jobs so much as having their tentacles all around the globe. The same CIA capable of orchestrating chains of events that could end democracies, assassinate key people to give rise to wars in far away countries, of kidnapping and torture in the name of the United States. Dave would know. Killing on the battlefield as a soldier was one thing - Anyone could die on the battlefield, even if they were good, trained their whole life for it as Dave had been. Wetwork, on the other hand…

 

_If they have anyone right on the other side of the bridge, will they shoot at me first, or at him?_

David doesn’t have a phobia of water, but right now, he despises the way the river rushing below them dulls his hearing, and how the sound and smell of water is making Hal’s shoulders tense, his steps sway.

He hugs himself with his right arm to conceal the way his hand is closing around the handle of the Sig Sauer inside the jacket. And puts his left hand in Hal’s shoulder. And whispers: “Easy there, and don’t stop.”

 

It’s strange, they’re meant to be running for their lives and yet at the moment they’ve slowed to a crawl, Hal’s nose having bumped into the hiker’s pack in front of his face more than once. He wants nothing more to race across the bridge at top speed and find respite in the thick trees on the other side but there’s just no way. Dave’s hand lands on his shoulder and for a moment he stops, somehow having forgotten the man was behind him.

_You’re not alone, Hal. He’s counting on you. Keep it together._

 

He places his free hand on the railing, sliding along inch by inch, focusing on the rough texture of the metal, the smell of rust, anything besides the water below. He keeps his eyes directly ahead of him, studying back of the hiker, counting the pockets the zippers, and he realizes it’s suddenly far away and growing more distant by the moment. Has the line suddenly shot ahead? Had the hiker take off at a run?

 

No, Hal realizes. He’s just stopped moving.

 

David butts up against him, a sudden reminder about their position, their partnership and shared danger.

 

And fuck, Hal can’t move.

 

By the time he closes his eyes his vision is already blurred. He knows. He knows with complete certainty that the water isn’t rushing up to meet them, the bridge is secure and crossing it is their only means of survival. He knows this. He just has to believe it.

 

And then the bridge shakes.

 

It’s inevitable, really. It’s part of the bridge’s design, a certain amount of give factored into the design to accommodate the force of the wind and traffic. It’s math, engineering, two things he’s always counted on in the past for solace and stability.

 

He screams. And all of a sudden he’s on his knees again, one arm still gripping the rails as he struggles to support himself. This can’t be happening. Not now. They’re both dead if he can’t get it together. Dave. Dave will be dead. Because of him.

 

He can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can barely stand, and that’s only because his knuckles are white around the bridge’s railing, the only tangible thing in his universe, the only thing keeping him from being swept into the water that is just beneath him, so close, getting closer.

 

Dave doesn’t think. He _reacts._ There’s something inside him screaming on how you should never try something this abrupt with somebody succumbing to a panic attack, how _he knows this from experience,_ but the situation is way too dire, _they are attracting attention, and Hal won’t move, and–_

He lets go of his gun and picks Hal up in his arms. Outright grabs him, knowing his superior strength won’t let him drop the collapsing young man, no matter how hard he thrashes. His own mind feels like a blank, adrenaline and tension overwhelming every sense, but _he has to go on, he has to cross the bridge_ , _get them to the other side,_ there’s no time to play therapist.

 

And all at once it’s gone. Hal’s ripped from his spot and it feels like he’s floating, being carried away, the water must have finally reached him. He’s not screaming anymore, lungs emptied of air, refusing to fill again. He feels his body being thrown and it’s just like his dreams.

 

_No cars crossing in either direction right now._

David steps out of the sidewalk queue and on the street before the other people have time to react, and _runs._

 

Some people turn and stare, the tourists behind them muttering and glaring as David pulls him from the path and onto the street. Hal doesn’t register them at all, he’s alone after all, sinking and alone.

David doesn’t remember ever running so fast or so urgently in his life. Can’t possibly know how incredibly little it took for him to run the remaining length, with Hal in his arms paralyzed and gulping down air at such a wild, desperate pace there was no way oxygen was actually _reaching him._

He is familiar with that sensation. Hyperventilating, and the certainty of _dying_ making it feel as if it were a rush of water collapsing the lungs from the inside out. Getting to watch it from the outside would’ve been terrifying, if his own body hadn’t been in such an overdrive. He can’t allow himself to feel fear. Just pure instinct, the will to survive, and the will to keep Hal alive.

 

David lets him fall to the ground, feeling like the trees around them are going to collapse onto him as well, and _knowing_ he needs to _help him breathe,_ because if there’s anyone following them or waiting for them–

 

Hal’s back hits the ground and it would have knocked the air from him if there was he had any breath left. He can’t make sense of the world around him, he just knows he’s still sinking, falling, and there’s something above him, pressing down.

 

_He can’t breathe._

And things had been going so _well._

Desperate, Dave tries to press down onto Hal’s chest, pushes once, twice, and it’s not quite CPR, he’s trying to bring back some sort of rhythm, and _it’s not working._

He covers Hal’s lips with his, and breathes into him.

 

Hal’s dreams have never lasted long. There has never been much to them, just the feeling of pressure, of helplessness, darkness closing in. The water fills his lungs and… it’s over and he finds himself sitting on his bed, drenched in sweat, coming to terms with the inevitability of another sleepless night.

 

The dreams have never been this real before. He’s remembered each one in vivid detail, shades of blue creeping into his thoughts unbidden, but he can’t recall the water ever throwing him in this way, he doesn’t remember ever having touched bottom.

 

He manages to look up one last time to find blue staring down at him. Just as he feels the dark swallowing him he takes a breath-

 

 

…one is given to him.

 

David is not good at taking care of _anyone._ He’s not good even at taking care of himself.

 

Right now, terrified (because _he is terrified_ , even if he won’t ever admit it, he doesn’t feel in control of the situation and the danger he knows they are in, and there’s the sound of paranoia ringing in his ears), his only priority gets reduced to breathing into Hal.

 

And it’s not oxygen, the thing he is giving him. He knows, though right now _he is not thinking._ It’s not life. But the rhythm of it eases his own lungs as well, and so Dave pushes carbon dioxide through Hal’s mouth and into him, to get him to _slow down._ Until hyperventilation becomes a steady flow through Hal’s nose, still too fast to be healthy, but good enough to let actual oxygen to do its job.

 

Hal feels no happiness or relief, such emotions lost to him at this point. There are only the last dredges of instinct coaxing him to grasp at what’s been offered, a chance at survival. He sucks in the air greedily, and it hurts but he gasps for more.

 

Slowly, he rises. Slowly the world comes into focus. The hardness of the earth beneath him. The chill of the morning air around him. The warmth above him. Slowly he regains his breath, and stares back up into the blue.

 

Too exhausted to think Dave drags his chapped lips against Hal’s before letting go, and allows himself to rest his forehead against his.

 

Hyper-awareness still needles at his nerves. The sound of the wind rustling the leaves in the trees surrounds them, masking his own heavy breathing as well, but David knows he’d realize if there were anyone immediately posing any danger.

 

That’s what he’s been trained to, his whole life.

 

Hal gulps, chest heaving as he finally begins taking breaths for himself. It’s a bit like choking as he comes around, finding a rhythm, stabilizing. His body is shaking-  a scared animal on the ground.

 

He’s aware of David above him now, a sweat drenched forehead pressed against his own. He realizes what he’s done, what he had to do just to keep this fool boy alive. His gasps turn to sobs and his fists press up against Dave’s chest, not wanting him to see his shameful failure, not wanting him to go.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m s-sorry.” He’s shuddering against David, who might as well be made of stone for all Hal can move him. He settles for turning his head, eyes shut tight, unable to meet his gaze. He can’t help but feel that he’s betrayed him somehow, given him the impression that he was anything more than broken, defective. And now… now Dave knows. He can’t bear for him to know.

 

“…please.” The sound is barely audible.

 

“P-please don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

 

As if he had any right to ask.

 

“Shh. Not going anywhere”, Dave mutters between his teeth. If there’s no give when Hal pressed, is because there’s so much tension through his body he’d be shaking, weren’t he so rigid.

 

These two days, they haven’t been as terrible as Outer Heaven had been. Not by any means. And he still feels as if he had been thrown back into South Africa, all the uncertainties and none of the enthusiasm he had had. Four years out of a proper battlefield and his tolerance for stress had been so lowered it’s a miracle he–

 

_You’re a soldier, and locking up on the battlefield means death._

Dave forces himself to move, and doesn’t wait for Hal to do the same. He feels as if there were enemies watching them out of every corner, even if he knows it’s not immediately true. But they weren’t out of hot water yet, either.

 

He picks Hal up again, holding him close, and gets both of them into cover, inside the grove

 

Hal’s aware he’s been picked up, carried for the second time today. His face and body grow hot with shame for breaking apart, for needing David’s help in this way.

 

 Hal curls up as tightly as he can in David’s arms, a feeble attempt to make himself smaller, less of a burden, though it doesn’t seem to matter. He’s been carried briskly through the wood as though he’s made of nothing more straw and paper. He’s filled with fear at the thought of what his breakdown may have cost them, what it means for their safety, but some tiny part of him is awed at David’s strength, a quality he’ll never possess in any meaningful quantity.

 

And there’s another part of him still, deep and quiet, astonished at the idea that someone else has found him worth protecting. It’s no more than a mustard seed, but even so, Hal quashes it down, finding the notion too self-indulgent to nurture.

 

Branches and brambles scratch at his arms and face and he realizes they’ve stopped, using the dense wood to their advantage. He bows his head slightly against David’s chest, sighing and taking in the first deep breath he’s managed since setting foot on the bridge. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t think… I thought since everything was…” The man had made every accommodation for him and he’d still fucked it up. What could he say? Hal wants to prove he’s not useless, that he has value, that David hasn’t made a mistake. He wants to feel right and whole again, to stand on his own two feet.

 

He also doesn’t want to leave his arms.

 

Dave is not about to let go, either.

 

If Dave is registering the pain of tree branches poking and scratching at his arms and back through the jacket, it doesn’t show. Every sense he has prompts him to keep on moving, until the brush gets so thick there’s no way anyone can see them, or move towards them without making a sound. Camouflage is safety - feeble and temporary, and incommensurately better than being up in open air.

 

He sits down amidst the underbrush, and holds onto Hal tightly. It grounds him, knowing he still has an objective to perform. Keeps him from sinking. He has always been like this - His needs for either big or small spaces a continued ebb and flow, like action or inertia. It’s not like he is at the point in which he’d rather not move. It’s just that now it furthers the success of his current mission.

_You’re a disgrace, you know. Never should’ve left Alaska._

“Don’t say anything”, he whispers. He needs the silence to listen in better if there’s no-one following, and stays still. The sound of both of them breathing, and his own galloping heart aren’t making it easier, they muddy the signals. A sniper rifle could still take them from afar if they move and he _needs_ to perceive the sound of a safety getting taken off before it happens.

 

_Rookie mistakes, all over. Shouldn’t have left Outer Heaven alive either._

Hal silences immediately, choking down the start of a whimper that was trapped in his throat. He focuses on what’s in front of him, David’s jawline and neck, a pulse fluttering just beneath the skin. He concentrates on the texture of the man’s stubble _he hasn’t slept,_ his ragged breathing _, he’s at the end of his rope,_ the thundering heartbeat _, he’s… afraid?_

He takes his cue from Dave, calming as his breaths grow more steady, slowly unfurling in his arms. Hal’s hands still don’t move from his chest, but his fists slowly relax, hands loosening to entwine themselves in the fabric of David’s shirt.  A thumb makes its way over a button there over and over like a talisman, although Hal’s thoughts are empty of prayers.

Aiming to get himself under control, Dave breathes in and out, slowly, until all he can smell is lingering tobacco, and the acrid smell of adrenaline-infused sweat of them both, mixed until he can’t make a difference between the two of them.

 

God knows how much time has happened, when he finally speaks again:

 

“Feeling better?”

 

David’s voice shakes him from his silent meditation, and he looks back up into his face, eyes wide. Still unsure if he should speak he nods his head. He can see. He can breathe. He knows where he is and who he is with. The world around him is real, his place in it uncertain to be sure, but he has control of himself once again.

 

Still not wanting to speak unbidden, he mouths a simple phrase.

 

_David…thank you…._

He hadn’t been expecting Hal to keep his silence, after he had asked him. Focused, Dave follows the movement of his lips, reads them, and there’s the faintest quirk in his own acknowledging Hal’s gratitude before he even finishes processing it in a more conscious way.

 

“It’s ok if you speak now. We’re alone.”

 

And he has known for a while it’s true, but it’s easier to actually believe it once he says it out loud. It’s going to be a long time before his stress levels go down. But this is alright. He needs them like this, louder than his intrusive thoughts, to keep himself sharp and ready.

 

David sighs, and very slowly, starts relaxing his hold enough so Hal can get out of it if he wants to. He speaks low, but steady enough to mask how agitated he had been.

 

“It’s all too likely there are people looking for us, right now. Nevermind the CIA, by this point even the mounties know two people crossed over the bridge with no IDs. American visitors from the tourist groups are allowed to go back and forth without passing through customs as long as they don’t get past of it… and we were with them.”

 

He chews at his lip, and considers very seriously just chain smoking until both of them are in a better condition to move.

 

“We can either try to get closer to Toronto, immediately, or… look for some place to lay low until the alert level goes down.”

 

Hal is gently released from the embrace so slowly he almost doesn’t realize it happening. Even as he’s let go he remains still against David’s chest, drawing stability from the contact. He’ll move when he has to, but will stay as long as he’s able.

 

The button continues to slip in between his fingers as he considers Dave’s words. He’s fucked up, he knows- ruined any chance they had of sneaking across the border unnoticed. Somehow, David has managed to remain calm (or at least outwardly so, Hal tells himself) and focused on devising a plan for their safety.

 

And he’s… asking Hal, rather than telling him about the next step. He weighs the options in his mind, nodding slightly as he does so, so Dave knows he’s thinking quietly, not paralyzed by fear. The city is likely their next big move so the two might hope to get lost in the crowd, but it brings with it its own set of dangers. Increased law enforcement, larger numbers of witnesses, greater dependence on paperwork and documents they just don’t have. And it’s far from here.

 

And right now here is the only place Hal feels safe.

 

“Not the city,” he says quietly. “Not yet.” He thinks it better to hide away from others on their own terms for a while. It’s a temporary solution to be sure but after what’s just happened he knows he can’t put David through another bout of panic again. He’d been foolhardy, thinking there would be no problem crossing the water- had he actually suggested a boat? As reluctant as he was to delay taking the next big step, he couldn’t take a risk by making a move he wasn’t ready for. He’d let David down already, a second time didn’t bear thinking of.

 

“Somewhere quiet,” he suggests. “To sort things out, I’ll get myself together I promise. It won’t…” he stops himself. He wants more than anything to tell Dave it won’t happen again, but doing so would be a lie, and one they don’t have time for. “I’ll do everything I can to tell you if… if it might happen again.”

 

It’s good if Hal is not moving away just yet. He’s tired enough to admit to himself he doesn’t want him to, though never out loud. There’s a reason he’s asking, too, instead of following the part of himself that keeps on screaming at him to _just take charge and lead_. The phobias and panic attacks, it’s not like he doesn’t get it. They need to regroup.

 

Can’t show it, though. So he just snorts and gives Hal’s hair a short, awkward ruffle, playing it cool. “Don’t have to sound so miserable about it. It’s alright.”

 

As long as David focuses on the tasks at hand.

 

There are several plans already half-forming in his head, but none of them are going to be– _easy_. With no papers, it’s hardly likely they could go anywhere similar to a hostel and stay in there for real. The city would have posed a similar problem, though its sheer _size_ might have worked to their advantage when it came to finding a place to stay.

 

David takes out a cigarette from the pack, but doesn’t light it up, still deep in thought.

 

“I’ve done some survival in my time. But it’s not _ideal,_ and besides, the mounties are going to be around.” He fiddles with the cigarette, frowns for a second or two. “I think our best bet would actually be to find an empty house to squat.”

The guilt he was feeling is offset slightly by David’s hand in his hair; it’s almost brotherly he thinks. God, what he wouldn’t have given for someone like Dave earlier in his life- brother, friend, whatever. Someone to help keep him steady, to keep him from making terrible choices, if only for the fear of disappointing them.

 

He watches as Dave pulls the cigarette from its pack and toys with it, never lighting it. There’s something calming about the mechanical motion of his fingers and it helps him focus on the task at hand. A place to stay. Something empty. He knew from the maps and the tour groups that they weren’t likely to find any abandoned houses here, property too expensive to waste like that. This was the sort of area where people came to vacation, to spend their days when the weather was warm.

 

“…Summer home.” He whispered. “There’s gotta be some houses around here, y’know, summer cabins, time-shares, places people don’t live most of the time.” The climate is already warming, so they won’t be able to linger but if they chose wisely it might be good for a day or two. With any luck, that will be all they need.

 

“Might even find a place with electricity if we’re smart about it,” he suggests. “Those kinds of places… they’re usually clustered together. Y’know a whole neighborhood where people just come for part of the year.” The properties by the water are an obvious choice for such high-dollar homes, but that isa foolish idea for more than one reason.

 

He chews his lower lip as he sinks into thought, trying to decide on the best direction for them to go. He can’t keep relying on Dave to make the calls, hadsto start pulling his own weight at some time. “If.. if we can risk a visit to a gas station, or…or a general store maybe, tourist center. We can pick up some flyers on local rental properties. It will point us in the right direction. Nobody has to know we’re not, uh… looking to sign the guest book, as it were.”

 

“The guest book, huh”, a pause, and he thinks about their options for a moment or two. “Not bad”

 

He stands up, picking Hal’s bag and offering him a hand to help him up. “Let’s go, then.”

 

Hal practically beams at the compliment, his moment of panic becoming more and more far away as the minutes pass. Dave is… actually listening to him, actually considers his opinion worthwhile. It’s a strange feeling, but one he’s eager to experience again.

 

This is it, this is the reason Dave wanted to listen what Hal had to say. Because his idea would’ve involved scouting for a place on-site, exactly as if he would have in a war zone. For all he used to consider himself a practical person… And it’s a risk, but they can’t stay there, and it sounds like a sensible enough gamble, as long as _he_ keeps on being vigilant.

 

There were darker things to mull over if it was about _being practical_ anyway, and how nothing he has done since last night would qualify. His actions until this point have had way more impulsiveness than his usual no-nonsense attitude would have allowed, ever, and he knows it. But beating himself over it or try to pick apart the _whys -_ something he has been delaying- would have to wait until they had a roof over them.

 

He lights up and smokes in silence, getting the need for nicotine out of his system before the circumstances demand him having both his hands free. The walk out of the small forest thicket he got them into passes wordlessly as well. The map of the zone they have is not complex enough to show where a gas station or a general store might be, but Dave is pretty sure they can’t be too far away at least from the latter. The same people vacationing here are going to need both, and while hopping inside a car for a fifteen minute ride until Gananoque surely wouldn’t be much of a bother, walking twenty kilometers (give or take a few) to buy something quick for dinner surely is.

 

 

He decides on going west, also avoiding taking the highway up north. There’s a secondary road right there, and it’s bound to be less transited. Fewer people to bump into, and there’s enough trees to provide cover if they need it. His right hand still itches for the security of the grip, but he has come down enough to differentiate paranoia from actual instinct again. _As he should._

It’s not so long before they come across a countryside mom-and-pop store, crammed with various merchandise and a cork board overflowing with post-its and fliers.

 

_Point for the civilian._

It’s perhaps a few miles before they make it into the local shop and Hal immediately heads for the bulletin board, running his fingers lightly over the papers pinned there. He ignores the flashy, professionally printed brochures, figuring the properties featured there to be too well protected against a break-in. This close to the busy season, there may already be maintenance staff cleaning and gardening before tenants return. Instead he scrutinizes the cheap, photocopied ads, those with ripped edges, likely posted seasons ago.

 

“Is this anywhere near where we are now?” he asks, pointing to a yellowed piece of paper advertising a “cozy” getaway with a “charming, rural” feel. Hal knows enough about advertising to recognize gratuitous embellishment when he sees it, and imagines something more like a drafty cabin. He pulls the paper from the board. If it’s not visible to later visitors, that’s just that much less of a chance someone will stumble upon them.

 

Reading the ad doesn’t take long, no. It’s in a secluded place, going north of Snake Island and east of Landon Bay - Dave takes a look at the other ads for comparison, and the listed price is cheaper than a lot of their other options just by virtue of not being close to the river. Also, the yellowed paper gives away just how _long_ it has been empty.

 

_And the Plan B…_

Of course, he’s not enough of a fool to buy the cozy adjectives for a second, either. “A thirty minute walk, if you can keep up the pace”, he says after doing some mental calculations of the distances, and Hal is going to have to forgive him for not being that optimistic about this, but he adds: “Hope it has something to cook in. Bonfires are alright but they lose their charm if you have to go outside every time you want to bring water to a boil.”

 

The issue, actually, had more to do with smoke giving away their _occupation_ of the cabin. He hopes his raised eyebrow gets the point across, and gestures Hal both to put the ad inside his pocket, and to hide his face. He goes to the counter, and rings the bell.

 

_Plan B involves using force, and let’s hope it doesn’t come to that._

An elderly woman comes from behind a wooden door. He shops for some basic groceries and other essentials, enough to last them a couple of days, and pays with the Canadian dollars they exchanged back in Watertown. They can’t come back here, better to stock up in what they’ll need right now.

 

If there’s a weird tension in the air, it’ll be better if Hal ignores it.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave and Hal manage to find a place to lay low for the time being, but just because trouble is out of sight, doesn't mean it's out of mind.

Hal stays at the board, pretending he’s still reading, running his finger over several of the postings. It’s not just rentals; there’s listings for guided tours, upcoming festivals and even a tiny sign for a lost dog. He frowns slightly at that. Thinking a bit he realizes he should take this moment to take care of a few choice bodily functions and excuses himself quietly to the shop’s small bathroom. He stares for a bit at his face in the mirror, hair untamed, skin still a bit pale from a rigorous pace on such little sleep.

 

“And Dave hasn’t slept at all,” he thinks guiltily. He resolves himself to do everything he can to help them find a safe spot as quickly as possible. If Dave tries to bring up some kind of ‘shifts’ for keeping watch, he’ll insist on taking the first one. Realizing several minutes have passed he washes his hands and leaves, seeing Dave finish paying for groceries and head for the door. He spent a few more minutes lingering, perusing the aisles before picking up one or two small items and heading to the counter.

 

“Sorry,” he apologizes as he puts a few dollars in front of him. “Already changed all my money for the trip back.” He makes a slight grimace, although he’s secretly pleased with himself for the lie. The woman rolls her eyes but makes no comment. This close to the border, most people took American currency without any trouble. “Thanks, better go catch up with the folks!” He tells her before heading out.

 

Realizing Hal still hasn’t come out of the store, Dave lingers by the porch, taking out a water bottle from one of the bags as if he had all the time in the world, and giving it the longest swig. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he had been, and it made sense - he has been running on fumes and CIA-issued meds. And after that insane dash over the bridge…

 

He could go for another 48 hours, if he took another Modafinil. _Should be able to, at least._

But he knows it’s a matter of physical exhaustion, now, that goes beyond sleep deprivation. It has nothing to do with sleep, and everything to do with how after a 20-hours-flight to get back to the USA from a mission overseas, he had been immediately called for an extraction that had required him to drive from Virginia to New York, to retrieve this supposed national security threat who is currently taking way too long to finish whatever he’s doing inside that shop.

 

Hal steps out onto the porch of the tiny shop and walks several paces past Dave without glancing at him before crossing the road and walking into the dense foliage.

 

Dave realizes _Hal had been setting up a ruse_ when he steps out and doesn’t say a thing to him. With the slightest smirk of approval, he starts walking and doesn’t say anything until after they’re far enough from the store they can’t be spotted from there. “Should I ask?”

 

Dave has a knack for memorizing addresses and directions. He doesn’t need to take out his map to know the way.

 

“Heh, well it’s not big deal. I just realized I still had some American cash on me so I dropped some hints that I was headed ‘back home’. Just in case anyone asks her questions later.” He smiles a bit, and can’t keep himself from glancing back at Dave.

 

Hal slows his pace just enough to get behind him, letting him both take the lead and so he could follow in his footing. He wasn’t graceful on the best of days and those generally didn’t include navigating a forest floor.

 

He keeps close to David, his face just a few inches from the man’s back, and he busies himself taking in the details of his jacket, the back of his head, as well as watching his footing. To his credit he only trips up a few times, nose and forehead butting against Dave’s back briefly as he rights himself.

 

So that’s what Hal had been doing… Maybe the best idea would have been just to have the least possible amount of interaction so they were less memorable, but Hal’s idea hadn’t been a bad one either. Muddied the tracks enough if anyone came asking for two guys like them traveling together.

 

_He does try hard, huh?_

He let’s him know, “That was some good thinking.”

 

With the shapes and distances of the local roads and the general geography of this place, it’s easy enough to plan for a route that wouldn’t be aptly called “a shortcut”. They went through patches of woods and fields, even if that occasionally required going over (or under) wooden fences, or barbed wire. From time to time, the terrain forced them back to more defined roads, much to David’s irritation.

 

The walk is a few miles and takes closer to an hour than the proposed thirty moments due to the tricky terrain and occasional sound of a vehicle in the distance, causing the two to take cover against the ground. Soon enough, he sees their destination from around David and steps to his side. “That’s it, right?”

 

It’s a small cabin, the ad had boasted two bedrooms but not much else. The windows are dark and there’s no car or camper parked outside. They may have hit a break at last. “So this is the part where we… uh… ‘case the joint’?” He immediately scolds himself for sounding so ridiculous.

 

The cabin doesn’t quite look like a total hovel, but doesn’t look well taken care of, either - at least at first-sight. Which suited them just fine, considering they were aiming for a more “let’s hope nobody comes in the next two days” kind of thing. It did have some flimsy wiring connecting it to the grid besides what looked like a shed - probably a diesel generator, but if either of them were working, that was still to be seen. “That’s it, yeah. And, _we_ are not going to case the joint, no.” Dave snorts for a second, amused. “ _I’m_ going to do it. You stay back there where nobody can see you if worse comes to worse.”

 

He takes out one of his guns, and sets himself to scout the house . Looking for weaknesses, alarms, if there’s any metal bars on the windows (there are)… Which kind of locks. It seems almost too easy..

 

But no, the door has two bars to keep it closed with a single metal padlock, and a normal lock. And with the Swiss army knife, Dave can force them open easily enough after some struggling, both of them. He opens the door - from the inside, it greets him the smell of mold and naphthalene. Nobody has been in here in a long time.

 

“Hal? Seems you can come in.”

 

Hal wilts slightly as Dave told him to stay put but understood. His little moment of cleverness had made him temporarily forget that he had no idea what he was doing, that they were in very real danger, and that one wrong move could be disastrous. He swallows and nods as David carefully approached the house.

After a moment or two of looking around the area, just to make sure there are no other souls lurking about he peers down into the bag full of Dave’s purchases. He can make out several vegetables, potatoes maybe and an onion, a bag of what looks like pasta. He hopes Dave knows how to cook, as he’s spent the last two years living on instant noodles and discreetly delivered pizza. He took multivitamins sometimes though, so it’s okay. It’s not like he’d ever gotten scurvy or anything.

 

Before he can think too hard about the menu he hears David call out to him and quickly trots up to the door, still peeking around before quickly stepping inside. “Smells like… a grandma… or twenty.” He wrinkles his nose as he peers into the darkness of the cabin. “Still…we…made it.” He can’t help but exhale a small sigh of relief. Even though they’re far from out of danger, he feels so much better just being within the cabin walls.

He peers around David, seeing the kitchen immediately and taking a few steps towards it. “Eh, it um, might be a while before we can use this.” He sets the bag down as he scrutinizes every surface. The counters, much like the rest of the house are covered with a thick layer of dust. He starts opening drawers and cabinets, smiling at the contents. It’s not much, but a few sets of silverware, some weathered pots and pans. Definitely enough to cook a potato. And maybe an onion. A quick click of the switch on the stove produces only the sound of the pilot attempting to light. “Damn….”

 

“Dave?” he calls out. “I don’t think the gas line is connected. That’s… that’s a thing right? That people do when they leave for vacation? Maybe there’s a tank outside?” He was hesitant to give the man more to do, but the sooner they got the cabin in order the better.

 

Meanwhile he tries to turn on the lights, and he isn’t surprised when they don’t work.

 

“I’ll go look outside”, Dave offers, stretching and making his every articulation pop. They can’t afford his exhaustion - not yet. “Look at opening the windows. Or dusting off the place, if you’re not allergic. I don’t want you to suffocate in this stench.”

 

Besides, everything will go smoother if -indeed- there’s a way to provide both of them with warm food during their stay without having to resort to a fire outside. He has a lot of good memories from his times at the Green Berets, but eating raw animals or cold rations aren’t among them. So, he goes out, Swiss-Army knife in hand in the case that toolshed has a padlock too.

 

Cobwebs cover the door, and a myriad of spiders escape as soon as he breaks them to uncover the chain. The padlock is plugged with rust, but that just means it’s easy to smash it open with a rock. He doesn’t like the way everything looks so abandoned, and his instincts keep him wary - there’s something in here that doesn’t quite add up.

 

Nevertheless, there’s indeed a diesel generator for electricity, which is very predictably empty, a firewood water heater (but the wood in a corner is far from dry), and rusty tools strewn everywhere. The smell of decay is even stronger in there. He does find a gas tank, and it doesn’t feel like it’s completely empty. Dave carries it back to the cabin and reports his findings:

 

“The good news is, we can use this. The bad ones are, I’ll have to go looking for another store tomorrow. Get us some fuel, because this is not going to last.”

 

_Besides, Hal is going to need some electricity to work, isn’t he. Better to get that generator running, as soon as we can._

_“_ That means, I’ll have to leave you alone - no use in going together for that”. He connects the tank to their kitchen, tries it a few times as he speaks, paused and frowning. He positively _hates_ the way his hands are trembling, hates the fact he’s been out of commission long enough for _this_ to make a dent on his stamina. “I’m making us something to eat, and then I’m teaching you to handle a gun.”

 

“Right.” Hal’s face is full of determination and he loses no time in setting to task. There’s running water, thank goodness- but it takes several minutes to turn from brown into something he wouldn’t mind drinking. As he lets the tap go he starts going through the kitchen cabinets, finding a surprising amount of what he’d call the “essentials”. There are dish towels here, dusty, but at least two of them might qualify as “clean”. He starts ridding the counters of their grime, coughing briefly before remembering the instructions regarding the window. They take a bit of convincing, Hal’s bandaged hand not entirely up to the task, but after a solid shove they give way.

 

When Dave returns he’s managed to get things into some kind of order. Counter tops cleaner than they were, windows open, allowing the warm afternoon light to stream in.

 

Hal’s eyes are eager as he hung onto Dave’s every word, and  he’s unable to stop himself from hovering a bit as he brings the tank into the kitchen. He watches as the man hooks the tank up expertly, almost from instinct. As the flame flickers on the stove he can’t help but reach his hands up, letting it warm his fingers. Though they’re on the cusp of the summer season it still gets cold at night, and he’s already beginning to feel it.  He sees David’s hands shaking and well and wonder if he’s the same.

 

“…Leave…” the word echoes in his head, joined immediately by the world “alone” but he focuses on David’s face and words to keep panic from setting in. He nods, stomach tightening, but perhaps that was merely due to the promise of food. _Potatoes. Maybe onions._ He repeats the words in his head, anything to keep the others from lingering.

 

“A…gun?” He blanches, taking a step away from David, away from the warmth of the stove. “But I can’t… I couldn’t…” He shakes his head, realizing the foolishness of his words as he says them. “Am I going to have to shoot someone?” The very idea makes him feel sick, but he should have known- known all along that he couldn’t just keep running away. Someday, someone would catch up to them, maybe not for some time, but eventually. And maybe then, David wouldn’t be around. And what then? He steadied himself on the counter, staring at the floor as he tried to regain his balance.

 

“…can we talk about this after dinner?” He said quietly.

 

He does notice the results of Hal’s efforts upon coming back - he wouldn’t have started working on getting the stove to light up otherwise. After making sure it won’t die on them anytime soon, he turns it off once again, washes his hands willing them to get steady, and opens the first of his bags.

 

“We can”, he answers after a pause, taking out (indeed) the potatoes and onions first, but also two cans of tuna, another with tomato sauce, oil, salt and a small packet of oregano. He’s not… particularly impressed with Hal’s reluctance, but it doesn’t come as a surprise either. “But, it’s a conversation we _need_ to have. You do get that, right?”

_What were you even thinking, picking him up like this. He’s not cut for this kind of life, even if he_ **_can_ ** _be of use._

_It’s not like that. He’s not some stray mutt._

“I understand,” Hal answers quietly and what are those, _tears_ welling up in his eyes? No. No he won’t let himself cry. He’s got a chance now only because David decided to risk his own life in an effort to save his sorry skin and he’s not going to throw that away because he’s what… afraid? _It’s a little late for that, Hal. Should have thought of that before breaking into the damn Pentagon._

Dave’s hands move on his own. His hunting knife is far from ideal but it’s sharper than anything in the cutlery drawer. He makes quick work of the onions, chopping them and frying them. He opens the tuna cans and drains them.

_What is he, then? Why did you do this? Grab your mark and basically_ **_elope_ ** _almost five thousand miles away from where you_ **_ought_ ** _to be?_

_I don’t_ **_have_ ** _to be anywhere I don’t want to. Got tired of that shit. He didn’t deserve to die, can’t shoot the willing._

 

Hal stands silently in the corner of the kitchen, god it smells so good, as far as he can tell there’s nothing but onions in the pan, but he feels as though he could eat a bowl full. It’s hard to resist the urge to look over David’s shoulder as he works, but there’s something…unsettling about the way he’s moving around. There’s a quiet determination that he’s already grown used to seeing, but something else, darker. He recognizes it as something he’d seen in his father from time to time, and realizes it’s better if he wasn’t around.

 

Without saying anything he leaves to the other rooms of the cabins, finding them almost bare. There’s a bed in one room and two cots against the wall of the other, though neither are furnished with any kind of bedding. Another search turns up a few blankets, mostly free of any kind of insects though smelling unpleasantly like damp. What’s the thing they did in old movies? Beat them over a line? Hal decides to at least air them out a bit, making sure to stay in sight of the kitchen window as he does so. It helps. A little.

 

The tuna is soon sizzling in the saucepan, the oregano and onions slowly replacing the smell of dust and decay in the cabin, diced potatoes boiling with a merry sound in their pot. Dave likes doing things with his hands, to concentrate and let well-known movements chase away all thought. If he can’t quite get into it right now, it’s not showing in how their dinner is coming along.

 

_Where’s the difference? To be a soldier is to be willing to die. You shot plenty of those, and liked it._

He stirs in the tomato sauce, shoulders aching with leftover tension.

 

_You don’t know how to do anything besides following orders._

He drains the potatoes, and doesn’t register the slight burn of their steam on his hands.

 

_Getting used is part of your trade._ _What are you trying to prove here?_

“Dinner is done.”

Hal is walking back inside, arms full with a quilt and knitted blanket of thick yarn when he hears David call. He pulls his arms to his chest, blankets held like a shield as he takes another few steps toward the kitchen, mouth already watering. “God, it smells so good…” He drapes his precious cargo over the back of one chair at the kitchen table as he moves to help, quickly finding plates for the two of them. “What is it? I mean, I don’t care but… I had no idea you could cook!”

 

Dinner. Actual dinner. At a table, not hunched over his desk. With a fork and…and another person. This was normal. This was what normal people did. He clung to that thought.

 

And afterwards, they’d talk about the gun.

 

“… I’m not sure it has a name”, Dave replies, and a hint of a smile reappears on his face. He had heard Hal come inside again, but hadn’t been expecting the compliment. He teases, “Tuna with tomato sauce, and potatoes. Probably.”

 

The thoughts he’s been struggling with are far from gone, still weigh him down. But the food smells good, and Hal is back with what looks like clean blankets - _Good thinking right there, again-,_ and…

 

_Patience. One thing at a time._

Despite everything, he still feels he made the right choice, when he looks at him. They _are_ going to have that talk. Food comes first. So, he serves two sizable plates, because he’s hungry and he can bet the kid is too. There’ll be plenty of leftovers, too, he made sure of that.

 

“Learnt to cook when I first started the service. Green Berets - knowing how to feed yourself is part of survival, too. Beyond knowing how to recognize edible plants and animals, they teach you pretty basic stuff, but it’s enough to make them decently tasty.”

 

He puts the dishes on the table and sits down, grabbing his fork. Invites Hal to do the same with a short gesture of his chin. “Dig in. You look like you’ll disappear.”

 

Hal twists the fork in his hand once or twice staring down at the plate, almost unsure how to respond. It’s been hours and a lifetime since the last time he’s eaten, it seems, and who knows how long since the last ‘home cooked’ meal he’s had. _As if this were any sort of home_ , he thinks.

 

There’s little time to split hairs though and he descends on the plate as though he were half starved, which isn’t too far from the truth. He’s halfway through the plate before he’s able to slow himself, suddenly realizing he’d been practically crouched over his food. He wipes at his mouth with his thumb, slightly embarrassed as he looks up at Dave and makes a second go. God, these were potatoes? When was the last time he’d eaten a potato that hadn’t been a french fry? How could these be so wildly different? Soft, warm, and yes, there were onions. He smiles as he relishes another bite.

 

“This goes way beyond ‘decent’” he says between fork fulls of dinner. “I could probably eat this every day for a year.” There’s a smear of tomato on his chin but he’s too contented to care. Soon his plate is clean, but it looks like it’s okay for him to have a bit more, so he goes ahead and serves himself seconds, and makes it half way through thirds.

 

Part of him doesn’t want to stop eating because it’s so good, but a small voice in the back of his head reminds him that when this is all over, they’re going to talk. And he’s not going to like it. Still, he can’t put it off forever and he already feels ready to burst, stomach unused to being this full. It’s an unsettling feeling, but not altogether unpleasant, and it’s with more reluctance than outright fear that he finally looks back up to Dave.

 

“So.” he begins. “Let’s talk.”

_So he had been starved._

He chuckles, taking the way Hal is eating as a compliment. The kid is rail-thin under the layers of hoodie, he had noticed that during the very first moments - putting the handcuffs around his way-too-frail wrists, and then today he had carried him for more than 4 km back at the bridge, he weighed nothing. Scientist-types, probably was the kind of person who didn’t eat because _he forgot._ Food would do Hal good, and he doesn’t stop him from going for more.

 

… Besides, for all the simplicity of the meal, it _had_ come out decent enough indeed. Dave is perfectly capable of eating tuna straight from the can and calling it a day, but there was no denying this was better. Tastier. Warm food had a way to make for good comfort, even for _him._

So he just eats his fair share, pacing himself and without overdoing it. The idea that anxiety could very well make Hal sick doesn’t cross his mind, he’s just amused to see a small, slight curve on that t-shirt that had been positively hanging off him earlier, and makes a note to keep the meals regular.

 

“You don’t _have_ to finish off that third if you can’t, y’know”, he teases, noticing how Hal is still toying with his food (probably out of nervousness) even as he attempts to start their Talk. And then more seriously, but still with no lack of kindness: “I knew you weren’t going to be the type to like guns. You didn’t take me by surprise there, Hal.”

 

Dave sighs, and adds, “I don’t like the idea of leaving you unprotected here, or _anywhere._ You need to learn.”

 

He fumbles with the fork a bit more, watching it twist within his fingers for a moment and tries to imagine a gun in that same hand. It wasn’t that he thought he was better than the sort of people who shot other people, not better than Dave certainly- it was more than he didn’t think he was better than…anyone. Computing skills aside, the idea that his life was somehow more valuable than another person’s, should be prioritized wasn’t something he could really wrap his mind around. Even if they were an ‘enemy’, (Hal struggled with the word), that didn’t make them less than him. After all, less than two days ago Dave had been ‘the enemy’, and the thought of pointing a gun at the man made him feel far more uncomfortable than the reverse.

 

“It’s not just guns. I don’t like the idea of hurting people in general. All flight and no fight, y’know?” He put his fork down and looked up, expression solemn. David probably didn’t know. Even if he’d read all of the CIA’s files on him, there was probably little need for them to go that far back. “There is… something very direct about a gun though. It puts you face to face. Not like a distant nameless target. It’s not anonymous.” Odds were if he ever did have to use a gun he’d be face to face with the person he shot. He wondered if that feeling would be worse than the guilt his grandfather had felt, but didn’t linger on the comparison.

 

And yet… David…speaks of protection. He doesn’t want to leave Hal unprotected, which implies that it’s his job to protect him when he _is_ here and there’s something very comforting about the thought. Hal tries to imagine himself in Dave’s position. If he had to protect David’s life, in some scenario he doesn’t really want to imagine- could he pull the trigger?

 

“Y…you’re right.” He says quietly. “You have to teach me.”

 

“It’s not anonymous, no”, he agrees, and thinks back to the differences between being in the military and being in the CIA. “Can’t say I understand the rest, but probably that’s exactly the reason you’re a better person than me. I was raised for this kind of life.”

 

There’s a certain kind of democracy on the battlefield, where even the best can die. They, on the other hand, are going to be _hunted,_ if they aren’t already.

 

A better person? Than Dave? He has to be kidding, but doesn’t figure the man for the type, especially not when discussing something as serious as this. And what did he mean “raised for”? Hal never spent much time thinking about what kind of people become CIA operatives, but as far as he knows there’s no top-secret primary school where they groom future agents.

 

“I’m… I’m not any better than you,” he says quietly. “I’ve never… risked my life to save someone else’s, not a loved one and… certainly not a stranger.” It feels odd, calling Dave that. True they’ve known each other hardly a day, but already Hal’s thoughts have teased him with the word ‘friend’- or ‘partner’ at the very least.

 

“Still”, Dave adds, standing up and picking both his plate and fork to put them on the sink: “The way things are now, it’s all too probable you’ll have to defend your life one day, if you want to keep it. And there’s no way I’ll leave you unprepared for that.”

 

He extends his hand, asking for Hal’s dishes to wash them too. There’s a certain cognitive dissonance on the scene, he guesses. It feels far too domestic for him, and probably far too violent for a born-civilian like Hal.

 

“We can start today, before the sun sets. If you’re up for it.”

 

He’d rather start immediately. But he knows his accuracy and stamina are going to be more affected than not if he doesn’t get at least a nap first, even if he’s trying to keep the external signs of his exhaustion at bay. Pills aren’t going to cut it at this point.

 

Hal hands over his plate, nodding. He’s still not sure he could ever take someone’s life to save his own but… well he at least feels like he’s been useful to Dave since they’ve met and he wants to keep helping him. Even though he still doesn’t understand Dave’s motivations behind all of this, for better or worse they’re in this together and Hal’s determined to pull his own weight.

“Yeah… that… that’ll be fine,” Dave agrees quietly. It’s probably a best case scenario for him. He has a little more time to get acquainted with the idea, but there’s a firm deadline. This is happening today- just… later.

 

He sighs and realizes just how tired he is. He’s drowsy from the meal, drained from the line of conversation and oh… that’s right… fucking exhausted from running from the U.S. Government all the way to Canada. Still, he remembers the promise he made to himself earlier.

 

“It’s… been a long day… night?” Hal runs a hand over his face, wiping at his eyes behind his glasses. “You should probably get some rest.  You’ve been going full speed this whole time.” He gives Dave a small smile. “I- found these-” he motions to the blankets, “and there’s a bed in one of the rooms. Not great, but…” he shrugs.

 

Dave doesn’t comment further on what Hal is saying about him, and just washes the dishes with one of the bars of soap he brought and the water that is now coming clean from the pipes. There’s no use in pouring his heart out on the subject, or in telling him his life story, and besides… He’s pretty sure that, whatever kind of hero-worship Hal may be nursing towards him, it’s bound to be short lived now they’re stuck living together. It’ll crumble down on its own without his direct intervention.

 

Hal’s offer, though. Is he going to be surprised, when his suggestion throws Dave off? “I’m used to this”, he says, because it’s true.

 

Even if the idea of a nap had done some rounds in his head already, Dave hadn’t thought he was being so obvious about how tired he really was.

 

… And, he hadn’t expected Hal to care, either.

“I have a hard time believing you’re used to _this_ ,” Hal gestured to the cabin, the Canadian forest just outside the window and himself. “But I get your meaning. Still, just becauseyou _can_ do something doesn’t mean you _should_.” He offers Dave a warm smile, anxiousness about their upcoming lesson ebbing slightly as he’s found something else to focus on.

 

He closes the tap and dries his hands on the sides of his jeans before taking the offered blankets. No use in protesting if he is so visibly at his limits, but it’s going to be on his terms. “Two hours. No more, I’m being serious. Counting on you to wake me up.”

 

He takes the blankets from the chair and pushes them to Dave’s chest, gratified when his offering is accepted. “Should we synchronize our watches?” He jokes with a small grin. “I got it. Two hours.” There will still be daylight left then, so he imagines they’ll start the lesson when Dave wakes up. He’d much rather have a rested teacher anyway.

 

A pause, and then he adds, “And, Hal… Thanks.”

 

“…I… uh, you’re welcome.” He responds, unsure exactly what he’s done that’s worth gratitude. The way he sees it, he’s still very much in Dave’s debt, will be for some time- but he’s determined to try and close the gap between them. He says nothing else, just waits for Dave to make a retreat into the bedroom he’d scouted earlier, and even then lingers by the table a little longer.

 

 

If Hal knew the shabby cabin and northern foresty wilderness were actually more of the exact kind of thing he’s used to, too… He just smirks, maybe rolling his eyes a little, with fondness.

 

 

He didn’t really choose a room, but the one he finds has a single bed, and the mattress seems usable enough. Doesn’t smell all that moldy, in all honesty it actually reeks of naphthalene, but he still flips it just in case (it’s old and traditional, stuffed with wool, which suits him just fine) . He doesn’t see any use in making the bed either. Throwing the blankets over it, extended, is good enough.

 

 

He knows it’s only going to be a nap. He can’t afford more than a nap. But he still kicks his shoes off, and takes his shirt and jeans off, knowing his resting time -no matter how short- is going to improve in its quality the less restricted he feels. Tension has made his limbs stiff, he feels it in his elbows and knees, threatening to cramp, and when he lies down and covers himself with the blankets, halfway up to his chest…

 

 

He’s out cold. Like a light. Didn’t even have the time to psyche himself up in the case of nightmares, just felt his brain shortcircuiting and then fell asleep, deeply and with no dreams. He wasn’t counting on this, and something like Hal’s knocking is not going to wake him up.

 

Satisfied that Dave was at least trying to rest, he sets to work. He retrieves his duffle bag and pulls his laptop from it, scrutinizing it for any signs of damage. He’d dropped it back in the apartment and it had been a rough road since then, but nothing appeared to be wrong with it. He boots it up, and breathes a sigh of relief when he receives no errors. Still, there is only a small percent of battery life left, not enough to accomplish much of anything. He is going to need to find a power source if he means to get them some form of ID and whatever else they might need for the long haul.

 

He shuts down the machine and started searching the cabin. Dave had said something about fuel? For a generator, Hal assumes. Still, even if they manage to get it running it’s no guarantee. He spends the first hour of his watch going through the house, locating the fuse box and looking for any tools that might come in handy now or down the line. He locates a tool box under the kitchen sink, which had the basics. Whoever had owned the property probably had their fair share of repairs to take care of, he figures. Soon, the tools are laid out on the table next to his computer, and he tries to decide which of them, if any are worth taking with him when they inevitably leave.

 

Having a task calms his nerves and before he realizes it the alarm on his watch is going off, signaling the end of the two hours. Quietly he goes to the door to Dave’s room- _no, the room Dave is in, none of the space here belongs to either of them_ and knocks on the door. “Dave? Hey. It’s uh… it’s time.”

 

There’s no answer from the other side, not even the creaking of springs to indicate that Dave has even heard him. Hal glances down at his watch, frowns as another minute ticks by, then another. He cracks the door just slightly and is actually glad that it groans loudly. With his face at the opening, the corner of the bed is just in view and he calls out a little louder.

 

“Dave?”

 

There’s still no response. He toys with the idea of going in and waking him via more direct methods, but can’t bring himself to do so. He pulls it shut quietly, thinking.

 

A full REM cycle was what, four hours? If he lets Dave sleep another two (which he knows the man could definitely use) it would only be late afternoon by the time he woke, giving them at least another hour or two of daylight, still time for a lesson in firearms. He might get reprimanded for not following directions to the letter, but at least it will be by a Dave who has had some decent sleep for the first time in who knows how long.

 

Hal’s starting to tire himself, but knows the solution for that and goes to find the small sack of items he’s brought from the mom and pop store earlier that day. He smiles and pulls a small familiar jar out, sighs contentedly at the familiar scent when he opens it. He finds a small pot in the kitchen and is soon stirring a small amount of boiling water, watching the swirling patterns as the crystals dissolve.

 

He pours himself a mug and practically winces at the taste. It’s bitter but familiar, and just the thing to get him through the rest of the night. He carries the mug with him and spends some time just sitting on the stoop at the back of the house, taking in the scenery. It’s oddly tranquil and that alone sets him a little bit on edge, but he can’t deny that it’s an amazing view.

 

After another two hours pass, he returns to the kitchen, pours another cup and returns to door once more. He pushes it open with his shoulder and takes a few steps into the room. Dave might be annoyed, but who can say no to fresh coffee? Even if it is instant. He reaches out with his free hand, gently shaking Dave’s shoulder. “Hey, Dave? It’s uh, been a few hours.”

 

David doesn’t think. He only reacts.

 

Next thing he knows, he is wide awake and amidst what feels the beginning of tachycardia, adrenaline galloping wildly through his bloodstream, his right hand closed in a tight fist around Hal’s wrist, gripping rough and strong enough to hurt.

 

Hal doesn’t cry out when Dave grabs him by the wrist, makes no sound at all. He simply freezes on the spot, eyes wide as the cup he had been carrying falls to the ground. His mind goes blank as the seconds pass, and he braces himself for the worst. He’s not sure exactly how, but he knows he’s messed up again.

 

He realizes what he has done three seconds too late, and lets go, panting. He sits up, drawing his knees towards his chest. Messing up his own hair in a nervous gesture, and avoiding to look at Hal.

It’s confusing when Dave curls up on himself, looks away. His strange posture seems at odds with the stern warning he’s issued. Hal nods, the only answer he’s able to summon, his own voice failing him.

 

_Jesus Christ. You weren’t even in the middle of a nightmare. Just a nice, normal nap…_

_Great self-control you’ve got there._

 

There’s the smell of coffee in the air and the distinctive knowledge of having spilled it.

 

His own voice feels raspy, foreign: “I… Don’t do that again.”

_You hurt him._

 

Still panting, he looks at Hal and what he sees is– He stands up, doesn’t bother putting any clothes on. Awkwardly, he reaches out to touch Hal’s shoulder, _lightly._ They need to put that hand, and whatever else he might have scalded, _and that wrist he mangled,_ under the tap. “I’m sorry. Let me–”

 

The sudden change in Dave’s demeanor doesn’t go unnoticed, the hand on his shoulder seems more familiar, like the Dave he knows. _Except… you don’t really know him, do you? It’s barely been a day._ He quickly draws his hand up to his chest.  “It… it’s okay.” He says quietly. “I’ll take care of it.”

 

He turns, pulling himself out of Dave’s reach and heads for the door. “I’ll, ah… be waiting. We can get started whenever you’re ready.” He turns to give Dave a weak smile before heading back outside.

_It’s barely been a day._

 

Still dumbfounded, he watches Hal practically stumble out of the room. His heart still threatens to give out on him, and yet…

 

If he were to be practical about this it’s pretty clear he has two choices here, and that only one of them is conducive to keep whatever time they’re going to spend in this cabin _somewhat livable._

 

Not to mention how that absolute failure at self control and proportionate response was _absolutely_ on him. He had asked to be woken up. _Had counted on it, even_. And he had hurt him for complying.

 

David follows Hal outside, calling for him.

 

Hal doesn’t respond, but the sound of running water from the kitchen gives a clear indication of his whereabouts. He’s standing there with the sleeve of his hoodie pushed up to the elbow, arm running under the water. It wasn’t a bad burn, thankfully, but enough that the skin is red- at least where it isn’t purple.

 

He’s immobile, mesmerized as he stares down at the already forming bruise on his wrist and can’t help but be reminded of the cuffs that were there so recently. He’s not worried, exactly- that he’s made a mistake _what choice did he have anyway_ , but he’s starting to wonder if maybe Dave isn’t as “used to this” as he claims.

 

Hal turns suddenly as Dave comes into the kitchen- he hadn’t even taken the time to get dressed, it seems. He can feel his body tense, despite telling himself that he has nothing to fear, that Dave has done nothing but help him this whole time, that it was just an accident and it was his own stupid fault.

 

“I’m… sorry,” he says quietly. “I wasn’t thinking.”

 

Dave shakes his head. This is hard but… it needs to be said.

 

“Hal… I _asked you_ to wake me up. Don’t apologize.”

 

He takes a couple of tentative steps towards him. He really doesn’t want to scare him off, not ever again, not like he just did. And maybe his own fucked up fight/flight system is still working against his will here, but… he can see the purple blossoming in Hal’s wrist, the reddened skin where the hot coffee scalded him. David knows the kind of strength he has, knows that it’s a miracle he didn’t break his bones.

 

An explanation is the least he can do.

 

“I… haven’t really shared space with any other person in a long while.” Not since FOXHOUND anyway.  “I hadn’t realized something like this could happen.“

 

He doesn’t do vulnerability. Revealing _anything_ about himself is like pulling teeth, and he knows it’s good (it has to be) if he’s managing to talk about it. Yet it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

 

He just… breathes, and then, completely sincere for once: “It wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry.”

 

Hal doesn’t want to be afraid of the man, absolutely, genuinely wants to trust him and trust _in_ him, but it’s still hard to know how to react, how to combat the flight response that’s practically buzzing inside of him.

 

“I… I haven’t been around other people for a while either. But… you probably figured that out already.” He wonders just how much Dave knows about him, what exactly had been in the CIA’s files, but things like his living arrangements over time were probably fairly basic. What those reports probably didn’t say was how much he’d hated every moment.

 

Maybe this was the reason he’d ended up being so damn… eager to have a… what… a roommate? A friend? He chastises himself inwardly for being so foolish.

 

And yet- Dave is here. Talking to him, although it’s clearly difficult. Apologizing to him even though Hal knows he’d never _choose_ to hurt him. And there’s something… something about the way he’s standing there, the way he’s talking that makes Hal realize he’s not the only frightened one.

 

He gives him another small smile, but it’s different than the one in the room, more genuine and with a sliver of… hope?

 

“I guess next time I’ll just march up and down the hall banging a pot with the backside of a spoon.”

 

The thing about Hal Emmerich is how he had suspected from the start there was more to him than what his file had said.

 

Dave hadn’t been cleared for access to most of it - CIA knew how to compartmentalize. All in all, they had briefed him into a clear-cut picture of a young man who was a shut-in, who had foregone all significant contact with the outside world since his arrival at that apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, remarking on how he’d need to extract him from inside his home. A couple of notes on the state of his health, both physical and mental, the last time he had sought medical attention - two years outdated, after the death of his father in a domestic accident; and a likely current prognosis based on predictive models. How he had no living relatives and was estranged from the political family he had left, which was extremely convenient to cover up his disappearance.

 

(A brilliant young man who had disappeared from the face of Earth, broken by mental illness, to re-emerge as a respected programmer and cybercriminal on the Deep Web.)

 

David had almost _broken his wrist_ , and now Hal is teasing him?

 

He stares at him for all three seconds while the reality of it sinks in, and surprises himself when a short bark of a laughter escapes him. “Doesn’t sound great if we want to keep being clandestine here, no.”

 

“But… it might work.”

 

“All right then, a squirt gun to the face- fired from the safety of the doorway?” Hal suggests. Stupid jokes are fine. They are safe. They let him ignore the slight discomfort growing in his stomach.

 

He rubs at the bridge of his nose, feeling like some of the ice has melted away, and steps closer, noticing out of the corner of his eye how low the sun seems to be hanging, beyond their windows.

 

“Let me bandage your hand. It’s too late for shooting practice anyway.”

 

And then Dave laughs and it’s sudden and it’s brief and maybe it’s just the absurdity of the situation and the fact that his sleeve has slipped down into the stream of water and there’s now a dribbling  running onto his shoes- but Hal can’t help the small laugh from escaping his own lips.

 

He feels so guilty when Dave takes another step closer, and the muscles in his stomach tense, if only for a moment. And it’s because of that that he agrees, if only to prove to himself that he’s not afraid, that there’s no reason to be- well, not of Dave at least.

 

Within a moment he’s shut off the tap and removed his now soggy jacket, which he hangs over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “The uh… medkit is in my bag,” he says quietly, willing his voice to stay calm as he takes a seat.

 

Hal sets his arm on the table while he waits for Dave to join him, simply stares down at the reddened skin, the imprints at his wrist. Part of him worries about how much good he’ll be if he can’t use his hands and he frowns as he flexes his fingers only to have them sting unpleasantly.

 

It’s all too likely things weren’t going to get _fixed_  as easily as this. Dave doesn’t even have to read Hal’s body language to know it, despite some of the tension diffusing. So, when he goes to retrieve the medikit, he moves making no sudden movements. Making an effort to produce the right amount of noise a normal person would, instead of slithering by as his state of alert still furiously demands.

 

“I can get you a squirt gun tomorrow, if you were serious about it”, and he’s not even joking, he is trying to show good will. When he had wondered about getting Hal over any unfounded hero-worship complex ASAP, he didn’t thought it was going to happen due to him slipping up _quite_ so soon.

 

“I.. uh… well maybe it wouldn’t make a bad training model,” Hal answers, half unsure whether he should take him up on the offer. “…Probably not the best use of the cash we have left though.” He tries to give Dave a reassuring smile, faltering only slightly. It had all been an accident, a genuine accident. They would figure something out in the future.

 

Dave leaves the kit on the table, open. There isn’t so much he can do about the burn, beyond spreading aloe and topical lidocaine on it. That wrist, though… Looking a little bit swollen there.

 

“Tell me if this hurts”, he says, wanting to be consistent in his policy of “Not Startling The Civilian Further” and applies the slightest pressure over the tendon, frowning when he finds it more hardened than it should be. It wasn’t sprained but…

 

“Hal…. I strained your wrist, didn’t I?”

 

The other option being a pre-existing tendinitis. Doesn’t mean it couldn’t be both. Probably means he needs to let that hand rest, at least until the next afternoon.

 

And if his expression changes to one that’s harder to read, it’s not on purpose, and it’s not because of disappointment in his _technician_ having both hands out of commission, if he counted last night’s cut. It’s because he feels _guilty._ Brooding, he takes some bandages out of the medikit and starts wrapping them around the injury with practiced ease.

 

He purses his lips tightly as Dave rubs the burn creams into the angry red marks on his hands with surprising gentleness. It’s not a bad burn, will probably be mostly healed within a day or two- the wrist on the other hand…

 

Hal winces and gasps suddenly as Dave’s fingers  graze over the tender skin, and immediately feels guilty for it. “I… I don’t know… maybe.” He says quietly, eyes downcast. He’s not sure why Dave has suddenly gone from returning his jokes to somber silence, but he assumes it’s because he’s now realized the extent of the damage. _He’s upset because you made a stupid mistake. Now you’re no use to him. You went from being almost kind of helpful to being dead weight in less than a day. Good going Hal. Great work._

 

When Dave is done wrapping up his wrist, he withdraws his arm slowly, sets it down in his lap. _Maybe if I just sit very, very quietly for the rest of the night I won’t screw anything else up._

 

“I, um. Had a look around. We still don’t know if the fuses or anything are working, even if we do manage to get that generator going so.. just in case.” He motions with his head at the tools laid out on the table, unwilling to move his arms again.

 

Dave’s not sure of what he should do now. Suddenly Hal is looking depressed again, his demeanor in that chair as if he was on the verge of curling over himself.

 

“That’s some good thinking”, he offers, and immediately wants to curse himself because _of course_ , it’s him who left Hal in no condition to apply force with a wrench. He thinks about it for a moment or two, considering what they have, and seeing if he can remember the fusebox and its location. Back to Hal, and his hands, he says: “… But you should try to rest. Don’t move those hands.”

 

Hal appreciates the compliment but it doesn’t seem to quite reach him, and he just gives a dull nod as he continues to stare at the table. Dave’s suggestion confirms his thoughts about his own uselessness. “Yeah… okay… I’ll just… yeah.”

 

Maybe…

 

“I’ve been taught to _sabotage_ that kind of thing. Wouldn’t know how to fix them.”

 

Dave looks for a cigarette, and his fingers slide on the skin of his chest,still unclothed. So, Dave just speaks directly, and–

 

“Maybe I could do it. f you guide me through it.”

 

Hal sighs heavily. _Dave doesn’t have the slightest clue how to make repairs on anything mechanical so if there is something wrong with any of the wiring we’re going to have to wait that much longer for you to be able to do anything about it._

 

But then Dave makes a suggestion and Hal immediately comes to attention. He nods vigorously, “You… you think so? You think it would be okay if I told you what to do?” Hal isn’t accustomed to people taking his advice or instruction on anything, let alone asking for it. “It won’t be hard, nothing in a cabin this old is going to be too complex.”

 

He looks back down at the table as he sees Dave’s hands tapping around on the wood in an already familiar motion. Emboldened by the future prospect of a task, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet, one of the several he bought at the shop earlier that day.

 

“I… I was thinking… we don’t know when the owners of this place might show up. J-Just in case… we don’t want to leave a trace.” He pushed it across the table with the tips of his fingers, and looked up at the man, half expected to be scolded for his presumption. “It’s uh.. spearmint.”

 

The slightest bit amused, maybe, if only because his relief at Hal agreeing to the plan allows it: “… Hal, I used to be a soldier. I’m kinda used to people telling me what to do.”

 

 

“Yeah… maybe,” Hal replied unconvinced. Dave may be used to taking orders, but he was unaccustomed to giving them. He could all too easily see himself helping Dave botch the job due to his own insecurity. He shifts uneasily in his chair at sharp tone in his voice regarding the gum.

 

… Dave _does_ stare at the chewing gum for a couple of seconds, as if he didn’t get the reasons for its existence in front of him. Had he been too obvious, in the way his fingers were rubbing together wanting a filter between them?

 

He takes the bubblegum and only _sort of_ grumbles, “Fine. But I’m not quitting”, because, Hal has a point there. Cigarette smoke is the kind of thing that gets stuck into fabric - he has been lectured about it before - and their couch and curtains are already in a miserable state as they are. “I’m just going outside if I want one.”

 

Everyone copes in the way they can, after all, and his priority is to stay _functional._ No amount of nagging about blackened lungs is going to change his mind - though he still had half a hope Hal wouldn’t be “That Guy”.

 

“That’s… that’s fine. I didn’t mean anything by it. You can do what you want.” It’s not like Hal is expecting Dave to quit or anything just because he said anything. Honestly he didn’t foresee the man doing anything because he said so. He could make suggestions and… Dave could take them or not. And that… is fine. He isn’t going to push the issue. Hal only has to look down at his hands to see how far his own bright ideas have got him.

 

Popping a piece of gum into his mouth, and chewing it intently to see if his remaining anxiety subsides a little bit, Dave adds, “We can start whenever.”

 

 

“Unless there’s any obvious damage, like exposed wiring we won’t be able to tell if anything is broken until we actually have some power trying to flow through it.” Hal spoke quietly,looking down at the hands resting in his lap. “But the upside is in a cabin this size there’s only likely to be a single breaker box, so at there’s that.”

 

Dave wonders for a moment or two if it’s Hal the one who is too susceptible, or himself who has a voice already too rough even when speaking  normally. And decides it doesn’t matter. Not with as much as he needs to do something about his awful mood, which hadn’t gone away since he had woken up. He had had extremely good reasons to go and isolate himself - other people suited him as badly as _he_ suited them. And now they were stuck together… and he can’t expect a soft-hearted civilian like Hal to toughen up to prevent a disagreement with disastrous results.

 

Dave is the most adaptable here. He’ll have to manage.

 

“You tell me what to look for. And we can test it tomorrow, with the generator working.” He chews his gum, thinking, letting the mint flavor sting pleasantly against his tongue.

 

“I can’t remember seeing a fusebox, but the generator is at the tool shed. Wanna go take a look?”.

 

That Dave bothers to clarify his meaning is a bit of a surprise to Hal, who is prone to assuming he’s upset or at least annoy the people he’s speaking to.  “Oh.. okay. I’ll do my best then. I’m not really used to giving instructions, just sort of, thinking and doing on my own, you know?”

 

He focuses on the questions Dave has asked him. “It ought to be fairly obvious, they’re usually kept inside closets because they’re not much to look at, but in a cabin like this, they’re just as likely to be on any wall.” Nodding back at the tools on the table. “There’s a volt meter there, but the batteries in it have all but rotted away. Add some Double-A’s to your list for tomorrow.”

 

He stood carefully, holding his arms tight to his chest and maneuvered carefully from his chair into the main part of the room.”Let’s see what we can find out there,” he added.There is determination in his voice, but the boundless enthusiasm has waned, either from the imagined scolding, or the fact that his last sleep was nearly a day ago in a car now located at the bottom of a river.

 

Dave’s voice changes _again_ and every time it’s surprising to Hal, although at least this time he can understand. He’s starting to realize that Dave… compartmentalizes. There’s a part of him that takes the lead, a part of him that takes orders. It’s hard to tell if it’s the result of his upbringing or just a personality quirk.

 

“Understood”, Dave replies, and while they do set to find the fusebox - and they do, it’s indeed hidden in one of the cupboards…

 

He may be shit at _fixing_ technical issues, as opposed to causing them. And yet, he still has enough knowledge to understand there isn’t much they can do without the generator running, and how (on a closer inspection), the generator appears to have a couple of its wires stripped down by rust.

 

Which means, they’re going to be forced to fix this on daylight. The sun has gone down so quickly only its afterglow remains, and while Dave had seen candles at the kitchen, spending them to attempt a repair in their dim light wasn’t really the smart thing to do.

 

Hal So he does his best to adjust, give clear instructions about what to look for, and tells Dave to add electrical tape to the list as well because they’re going to need it if they can’t find extra wiring in the cabin. He yawns more than once, but tries to keep focused on their task, finding it harder and harder as the light grows dim.

 

“Hal, let’s go back inside.”

 

He stretches, rubs at his bare arms noticing how the temperature had gone down all of a sudden. The cold reanimated him, but it probably wasn’t doing young Emmerich here any favors… and he needed to rest. Hopefully in a bed, as opposed to four hours worth of sleep on the shotgun seat of a car.

 

“We’re setting up shifts to stand guard. You go to sleep now”, and he points to the same bedroom where he had been lying down.

 

He doesn’t argue when Dave tells him to sleep and finds himself clinging to the hope that everything will be better in the morning. Of course wanting to sleep and sleeping are two different things, and not for the first time in his life, he’s tossing and turning, exhausted. It’s now, in the quiet of the cabin, when he’s completely alone and without a job to keep his mind busy that it all comes crashing down around him. He’s alive, but for how long? They have no plan- hell, Hal isn’t even sure if he should be thinking in terms of “they” at all. For all he knows this arrangement would last a few days, a week, or however long it takes for him to get them some fake ID.

 

Sleep had never come readily to Hal, but tears- tears were easy.

 

He rolls over, arms wrapped tightly around himself in an attempt to keep from shaking as he buries his head in the blankets beneath him. They smell of damp and dust, and faintly of pine, and his nose crinkles at the scent. But there’s something else there, faint but unmistakable. There’s sweat and…. and smoke. It’s not a smell he likes but he finds he’s comforted just the same.

 

He tries not to think about it too hard. Tries to quiet the voice that’s calling him a creep and a pervert. Just closes his eyes and attempts to focus on the scent as he flexes the fingers of his bandaged hand, and tries to sleep.

 

Dave retrieves a change of clothes from Hal’s duffel bag, quietly so as not to disturb his sleep, and a couple of things from the grocery bags before stepping outside.

 

The night is clear enough for David to feel comfortable sitting on the steps of the cabin for his watch. He chain-smokes hiding the cherry of his cigarette, his gun right next to him, alert to the sounds surrounding them. Slowly draining a finger or two from the bottle of Jack for warmth because even with a long-sleeved t-shirt, he only has the suit jacket to layer over it, and summer hasn’t quite reached these forests yet.

 

Time washes over him, and there’s only his focus on standing guard to distract him from his thoughts.

_Why did you throw your mission away for this civilian, Snake?_

 

He had been pushing aside that question since the drive from Lake Sebago.

 

Memories from Outer Heaven swirl around in the cold air, mixing with the bitter disgust he had felt at _himself_ after those four months in his last assignment with the CIA. Hal… had been the last straw, certainly, but it wasn’t as if he had had a _shortage_ of those.

 

He doesn’t know a life besides fighting, or anything other apart from being a tool of the government. That much was true. And he hadn’t been _raised_ to want anything else either. To question. To desire something to believe in, once Outer Heaven had thoroughly buried his certainty of being justified in whatever cause got thrown at him to fight for. Yet he had wanted it all the same, and doing wetwork for the CIA had worsened the urge.

 

Right there on the other side of the spectrum… was Hal Emmerich, three years into an isolation of his own making, gullible and foolish enough to apparently get as used as Dave had been, yet willing to accept death as the consequence of having harmed other human beings.

 

His hands were bloodstained up to his shoulders - Boot Camp, Green Berets, FOXHOUND… He still missed the clean-cut military life and the constant weight of his standard issue equipment at times, he had _enjoyed_ all of it. And yet Dave had felt he understood _,_ back at that dark and messy apartment that reeked of what depression itself probably smelled like.

 

It didn’t make sense. Didn’t mesh with his own self-image of practicality, of rationality ruling over impulse. Instinct was allowed, instinct had kept him alive. Emotions, on the other hand, any emotion beyond base loyalty or _anger…_

 

He hopes young Hal Emmerich doesn’t ask him for his reasons yet.

 

Dawn finds him bereft of a definite answer.

 


End file.
